back from the UK

Here's the short version, in case you're pressed for time and don't want to read the rest of this post:

     1. Miss H and I went on our trip to the British Isles and Ireland. It was Fun, with a capital "F." 

     2. A couple of days ago I queried Ethan Ellenberg with a 50-page excerpt of New Model Earth, which is the new title I've chosen for Revival, my sci-fi magnum opus.

     3. Miss H and I are moving. We're staying in Henderson, but we're switching apartments.

I told myself I'd write a post for each leg of the trip Miss H and I took to Europe, with oodles of delicious pictures for you to drool over. This is a travel blog, after all. But to be honest, I can't be bothered. There's too much going on right now. We're moving, as I mentioned. And I'm still trying to do three things every day: write, read, and exercise. So far I've been failing miserably, but not for lack of trying. Well, okay, maybe for lack of trying. But not for lack of wanting. So I'll just give you the picks of the litter: 

Black Linn waterfall, near Ossian's Seat in the Scottish Highlands.

I shouldn't have to tell you what this is.

The obligatory Big Ben selfie.

Tower Bridge ain't falling down...

The Titanic's original slipway in Belfast, Northern Ireland. 

Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, County Antrim, Northern Ireland.

Trinity College Library, Dublin. 

The view from Dundrum Castle, County Down, Northern Ireland. 

The Giant's Causeway, County Antrim, Northern Ireland.

All done drooling? Great. The trip was luscious. Heather and I had a long layover in Miami on July 3, and spent a sultry afternoon in South Beach lying on golden sand and swimming in bathwater-warm seas and stuffing our faces with Cuban food and ducking self-professed heroin addicts on Collins Avenue. The bachelor party ("stag do") in Edinburgh was a blast; the boys and I pub-crawled across town, buying cheese from a bona fide cheesemonger and whisky from a bona fide whisky monger and mowing down while we roamed the streets. I ate haggis pizza and got to try a beer that was 44% alcohol. Jeff and Jenn's wedding ceremony was beautiful. They had a double-decker bus with their names on it, and got married in a friggin' castle, and the reception dinner was just amazeballs (game terrine, beef Wellington, and apple and berry cobbler), and a fun time was had by all. Then Miss H and I walked from one end of London to the other, and then flew into Dublin and did a private pub crawl of our own, and then had an 18-hour layover in Boston that left a fine taste in our mouths (as did the fondue and pisco sours at Stoddard's). And that was the trip. 

It was, however, ludicrously expensive. 

So expensive, in fact, that Miss H and I have been living paycheck-to-paycheck since we got home. 

Our lease is up, and Ventana Canyon Apartment Homes will be increasing our rent. They claimed it was because there was "development" going in next door to our apartment complex and that's upping the property value. The "development" they speak of is the construction of another apartment complex. I was no great shakes at economics in school, but doesn't an increase in supply and a corresponding decrease in demand mean a drop in price...?

Anyway, we selected a one-bedroom apartment at a complex just a mile and a half away, around the corner on Gibson. It'll mean a downgrade in living space, but much cheaper rent. Frankly, the complex is much nicer: a five-foot-deep heated pool, an indoor racquetball court, and a host of other amenities Ventana can't offer. I won't tell you the name of our new complex, however, because I expect to become a world-famous author soon and I'm keen on privacy.

Yes, I said "world-famous author." I haven't been bone-idle since I got back from the UK. I busted my hump, and with the help of a few erudite beta readers, I whipped the manuscript for Mugunghwa into shape. I'm publishing it for the Kindle...well, hell. Maybe tonight. Depends on how convoluted the KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing) process is. I've already formatted my novel the way they want it and saved it HTML, and now all I have to do is pick a cover design and set a price, as far as I'm aware. Then it'll pop up on Amazon 24-48 hours from when I click the "publish" button. Fame and fortune will follow.

...but just in case it doesn't, I also prepped my manuscript for New Model Earth (which I shall hereafter refer to as NME) and sent a query letter, a synopsis, and an excerpt off to the folks at Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency. These are the same folks who picked up John Scalzi and published his works, so I have high hopes. 

Before 2015 is out I intend to start writing freelance opinion articles for the Pacific Standard, The Awl, and any other online periodical that likes my pitches. Might as well start working as a freelance writer, especially while I'm waiting to hear how my novel ambitions pan out. 

I've also taken proactive steps to get my flying career in order. Rather than lament my persistent lack of funds, I set up a GoFundMe campaign (click here or see the badge at the top right of this page). I need $25,000. That's to get current, get my high-performance rating, rack up 100 hours PIC and 50 hours cross-country flight, do my commercial checkride prep, take my exam, and then become a commercially-licensed pilot. And hopefully get snapped up by Grand Canyon Airlines shortly thereafter. 

I'm taking this campaign seriously. I've shotgunned it out over Twitter, Facebook, and Gmail, and I've even printed out flyers—actual, physical pieces of paper—to post up at the small airports around Las Vegas (North Las Vegas, Henderson, and Boulder City). I'm doing that this weekend, if there's any time after the move. 

If you really love me, you'll save this and send it to everyone you know. Even that hated coworker you have to stand next to in the elevator each day on your way to work. 

30 Days to a Better Man, Day 7: reconnect with an old friend

Time to say hello to my little friend.

No, not that one. Let's just call this friend Dirk. He's been a great pal of mine since high school. Unlike a lot of my other friends, he was quite a cerebral fellow, soft-spoken, erudite, calm, moderate and easy to get along with. His very presence was a soothing tonic on some days. You know the type. Anyway, he had a most diverse knowledge of international relations and diplomacy (which he later went on to specialize in at college) and we would speak at length about it together.

So it goes. The years marched on, and the two of us went our separate ways. He attended the University of California at San Diego and I hopped that plane to the Great White North (North Dakota State University, that is). He got steady work in Southern California, and I went overseas to Korea to find my fortune.

Ah-ha. You'll notice I said "steady work." That's because I have no idea what Dirk did during the intervening years, or even precisely what he's doing now, Facebook or no Facebook. I know he's in a relationship, but I can't recall his girlfriend's face. (Before you ask, I've never met her.)

The Art of Manliness has a rather touching story about Abraham Lincoln's Secretary of State, William H. Seward, and a friendship he had in his youth with a man called David Berdan. Read it. It makes the rest of this make sense.  Needless to say, after reading AoM's article, it didn't take me long to figure out who I was going to reconnect with. I sent out some lines of communication this morning. As per the article's instructions, I did not use Twitter. I don't have Twitter, and never shall, so it was easy. I e-mailed the dude. I asked him about his girlfriend, his life, his work, and so on (not in that order). I'll let you know when I hear back.

Hang in there for Day 8. 

30 Days to a Better Man, Day 6: update your résumé

Years ago I went to see a professional résumé-polisher in Boulder, Colorado. He lived in a spacious bungalow with an attached greenhouse, which my mother and I had to navigate to reach his desk, tucked away in a corner beside two huge windows looking out at the pine- and rock-strewn hillsides. He was a scholarly sort of man, tall, thin, white-haired, with spectacles and nimble fingers. He reminded me of one of my old English professors, but wasn't brain-burnt by decades of hallucinogens. He checked my puny résumé over, asked a few questions, cleaned up the formatting, added some strategic lines and font changes, eliminated the weak links, and handed it back to me. It was like alchemy. A few ingredients here, a few waves of the ol' wand there, a scatter of signs and symbols, and whammo — solid gold.

It's a bit of a jolt when you figure out that your résumé is two years out of date. I've switched jobs and done some volunteer work since 2012, all of which would be juicy additions to the old CV. There's my stint at Sejong University and the volunteer work I did up in Paju sending weather balloons laden with socks to North Korea. (I'd love to see what future prospective employers make of that.) 

But there's a problem. My résumé is too full.

Now, I know what you're going to say. "Oh, if there's not enough room, then you need to get rid of the old, weak stuff and add in the fresh stuff at the top." Fine and dandy. I'd do that if I was interested in being a teacher for the rest of my life. But I ain't. I'm a journalist, dang it. I want to work in radio. And the oldest thing on my résumé happens to be the year that I worked for Thunder Radio at North Dakota State University (2005, if you're curious). I don't want to ditch that. It's all I've got going for me if I want to get a journalism job.

I can't ditch any of the other stuff either: my job as an unpaid intern at the Victorville Daily Press in 2006; writing for the NDSU Spectrum as an opinion columnist between 2006-2007;  or working as a technical writer for the university's IT Help Desk in 2007. And I can't leave out the two hagwon jobs I've had in Korea: Reading Town in 2008-2009 or Avalon English in 2012-2013. Otherwise there'll be big, ugly gaps in my work history and my CV will look like a mouthful of rotten teeth.

And before you ask, I can't make the font any smaller. It's already sitting at 10 points. Any tinier and the interviewer will need a magnifying glass to read it.

Oh well. I'll figure it out. I have two hours and 13 minutes before midnight hits and it's on to Day 7. 

Wish me luck...

30 Days to a Better Man, Day 1: define your core values

A natural consequence of my life as an autodidact was the realization that, in addition to improving my mental capacity, I could stand to improve other aspects myself as well. Man does not eat of the Tree of Knowledge alone. There's a lot about me that could use some work. I'm in horrible shape, for one thing. And the term "emotional health" makes me, a red-blooded American man, think "Ewww, cooties." I could definitely use a shot of confidence, too. I've written hundreds of thousands of words and haven't gotten a single novelette published.

So! To that end, I hit upon the idea of doing Art of Manliness's Be a Better Man in 30 Days challenge. Why not? It can only help, right? Another year has gone by. It's January 1, 2014. I have once again realized how much of a lazy slob I can be, and how lacking in the most basic manly competencies I am. It's time to take matters in hand, and this challenge is just what the doctor ordered. I'm twiddling my thumbs at home for the entire month of January, and this will dovetail nicely with my writing-and-exercise regimen. The benefits are twofold: I'll be shouldering a new challenge (which has become a hobby of mine recently) and I'll take a delightful romp through the well-trod but classy Garden of Manliness. Classical manliness, none of this Billie Joe Armstrong skinny-jeans-and-eyeliner emo crap.

I understand, of course, that no Internet article can tell you how to be a man. But it can give you some handy tips on how to run your life, which if followed can improve the average man's mental, physical, financial and emotional well-being. If I take some of these lessons to heart, this challenge will make me more independent and confident in my doings, give me a more versatile skill set, impart clarity and certainty to my beliefs, and make my life just plain simpler.

This, then, is Day 1: Define Your Core Values.

I've been messing around on AoM for some time and they have a plethora of useful, timely, relevant, well-written and pithy articles. I agree with their judgment that manliness is a lost art, and much effort should be put into bringing it back. I've actually attempted a few of the items on this list already (and some of them I've already done), but not this one.

The main idea behind this challenge, as AoM states, is simple:

When I look at photos of men from my grandfather’s and even my dad’s generation, I can see a sense of purpose in the eyes of those men. Yet when I look at men today, I often don’t sense that kind of steely focus. Instead, I see dudes who are just sort of drifting along whichever way life pulls them. 

I’ve heard a lot of men my age complain of a sense of shiftlessness. They don’t have the drive, purpose, and ambition that our forebears had, and they feel adrift.

And this isn’t some sort of cranky old man observation about “kids these days.” Several books and articles by sociologists back up these observations.

There are numerous factors why men are just sort of drifting by today. Changes in the economy and societal shifts in regards to gender are definitely two major factors. But, let’s be honest. There’s not much a man, let alone a man stuck in neutral, can do about these things. So, today we’re going to focus on something that we all have the power to control: our core values.

I used to be a drifter. I was indecisive, dissolute, hedonistic, and lazy. I was just sort of coasting along all through my early twenties. I wanted to travel, I wanted to write, I wanted to fly, but I didn't have the drive to accomplish these things, or even a clear idea of how or when I would do it.

Today, I've learned better. I'm still indecisive, dissolute, hedonistic, and lazy, but now I actually care enough to do something about it.

I followed the directions outlined in the article and I came up with some ideas for core values, scribbling them down in one of the trusty notebooks scattered about my apartment. I'm putting them up here because I need to have accountability. I would like you, dear readers, to call me on anything I've put down which is weak or vague or unworthy. Censor me, if you will. Cherish the opportunity, for it shan't come again.

Without further ado, reproduced here for your consideration, are my core values: 

     1. CONFIDENCE. The lack of this has plagued me my whole life. It's kept me from leaping at opportunities that I would have cherished: submitting short stories and travel articles for publication, dancing with pretty girls, shouldering new responsibilities at work, acting in school plays, volunteering at magic shows and carnivals, and taking helicopter rides, to name a few. (That is correct: at the age of six I chickened out on riding in a helicopter. Me, the future pilot.) Confidence is hard work, but it's infinitely rewarding. I learned that when I got my pilot's license. When I first started flying, I was deathly afraid of screwing up and crashing. Overcoming that fear and becoming a more proficient flier made me more confident man. I'll never forget that feeling of triumph. Nowadays, even if I'm not sure I can do something, I give it a shot anyway. When I'm afraid of something, I have to challenge it. I have the confidence to pursue my goals, voice my opinions, and stand against the liars and fools. 

     2. HUMOR. An odd one, perhaps, but this has been a core value of mine ever since I was a kid. It's how I got through high school. Making people laugh was the only way I knew to get noticed, to be remembered, to be somebody. Subsequently I discovered just how genuinely good it felt to make people laugh or just crack a smile. Humor puts people at ease, smooths over conflicts, breaks the ice, and brightens a dark day. It's been my constant companion, even if I don't do it right all the time. 

     3. INTEGRITY. This is where I'm the most deficient. I am the most dissolute bugger ever. For the past five years I've promised myself that this year, I'll get in shape. Every year I continue to sit around on my duff and eat horrendous food. My natural inclination toward hedonism and Epicureanism have undermined my attempts to be healthy and get in shape. It's not just the physical arena that needs improvement, though. I often promise people (or myself) that I'll be more assiduous in my habits or more careful about my words, and then I'll turn around and commit the same old sins. I can be ill-tempered, impatient, selfish, hypocritical, immoderate, lazy, excoriating, insulting or just downright cruel at times. No more. A true man, in my opinion, does what he says he's going to do. And he only says he's going to do it once: he doesn't keep making the same promises over and over. Less talk, more action — consistent action. That shall be a clearly-defined value of mine from hereon out. There's nothing more satisfying than saying something and meaning it — and then living by it.

   

     4. GROWTH. Perhaps the most general of my values. There's a lot that falls under the label of "growth." It encapsulates all of the above values, for starters. I want to become more confident, more humorous and more consistent. Beyond that, though, I want to be smarter. I want to learn about the stuff I don't know about, fill in the gaps in my brain, continue by never-ending quest for knowledge. More importantly, I want to be wiser. At 27, I've experienced a few of life's lessons and learned them well; some of them I'm only just coming to know. Others surely await in the dim and unknown future. I want to be the kind of man that laughs at hardship and strives harder in adversity. I must learn to be kind to the unkind, forgiving to the unworthy, and temperate in all things. I want to be stronger (mentally and physically), funnier, kinder, and more discreet. I want to sharpen my skills, hone my mind, sculpt my personality, reflect upon life itself. I believe in being true to myself, my home, my relatives, my friends, my loved ones and my upbringing — to have that integrity I mentioned above. But I believe in the journey also. I hope I never stop learning to write, to fly, to be a human being.  

 

     5. LEGACY. Values are not goals. They are not something you strive for, nor boxes to be filled in, nor items to be scratched off a list. They are values: adamantine beliefs which I hold and cleave to. And I believe, firmly, that I have a job to do here. There's some karma that controls my destiny. I have a purpose to fulfill (and fulfilling it will be very fulfilling). That purpose, dear reader, is not my personal contentment. I used to believe it was, but I've come to know better. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said (emphasis mine), "The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well." There you are: my job is not to be happy, but to be a useful man, not a waste of space. I hold Emerson's words in my mind every day. The purpose of my life is to live well and make a difference. What difference? Will I reinvent the wheel? Cure cancer? Bring world peace? Champion a new age? Well, no. Probably not. I don't want to, either. I'll leave that to the dreamers and the eggheads. I'm just a humble geek and inveterate hack writer. All I want to do is write a bunch of books that make people laugh, cry, smile, scratch their heads, and wonder about the true nature of humanity and the Universe we live in. That's all. If some post-human race from the year 10,000,000 A.D. finds one of my sci-fi novels in a time capsule, translates the barbaric chicken scratch on its wood-pulp pages, and is somewhat amused by the comradeship and high adventure within...then my time on Earth wasn't wasted. 

That's it. Five core values. They have been defined for your reading pleasure. AoM says you're not supposed to have more than five, and I concur. Five's a goodly amount. Any more and you start to forget what you stand for, and making correct choices becomes more difficult. It wasn't hard to think of these. I've been mulling them over for quite some time. Perhaps I've known them all along, and had to put words to them to understand them completely. I'm glad I did.

So there you have it, readers! The things I stand for. Are they satisfactory to you? Suitably explained and outlined? If so, then the ball is in your court. Don't accept any more of my pathetic excuses. If I say I can't do something, or make a poor choice, call me on it. Use my own values against me. Delineating them is only half the battle; living up to them is the other. I'm going to try to do that for the rest of this month...and beyond. Tune in tomorrow for Day 2.

Oh, and Happy New Year.

sweet vindication!

vindicate [vin-di-keyt]

verb (used with object), vin·di·cat·ed, vin·di·cat·ing.

1. to clear, as from an accusation, imputation, suspicion, or the like: to vindicate someone's honor.
2. to afford justification for; justify: Subsequent events vindicated his policy.
3. to uphold or justify by argument or evidence: to vindicate a claim.
4. to assert, maintain, or defend (a right, cause, etc.) against opposition.

Vindicate. I've always liked that word. The moment I first saw it (in a Calvin & Hobbes cartoon; Bill Watterson does wonders for the vocabulary), I added it to my lexicon. Over the years I've tried to use it as much as possible. Vindicate. It's got a nice ring to it. It sounds exactly like what it means. There's nothing more satisfying than shouting the two words in the title of this blog post whenever the justness of your cause and the righteousness of your position has been confirmed. Sweet vindication!

And believe me, I've been vindicated.

For years I labored in hopeless drudgery, praying that one day I'd get to where I wanted to be. Maybe I'd have to put up with some unpleasantness on the way. I'd feel like I was in limbo sometimes. But one day, I told myself, things would be different. And now they are.

Nearly eighteen months ago, in February of 2012, I left the California desert and boarded a plane for South Korea (for the second time). The circumstances of my going were dire indeed. I had lived in my parents' house for the last two-and-a-half years, and no matter the state of the economy or the kindness and warmth with which my folks took me in, I was at my wits' end. My ego was crushed. My soul was in shambles. I felt rather emasculated. I hadn't been able to find a decent job, and even though I'd gotten my private pilot's license and put myself through bartender's school, I was still without prospects. It was the same situation as mid-2008, when I'd first gone to Korea. I'd been living for six fruitless, jobless months in my parents' basement in Wyoming. It was a nightmare.

And here I am, now, in July of 2013, ready to depart once more for Korea. This is the final week. My parents have been their usual lovely selves, and have seen to my every need (material and emotional). On the 29th I shall board a jet plane at...um...either LAX or Ontario (that's Ontario, California, just so you know) and fly to Tokyo, there to spend eight days touring the central and southern regions of the country by bullet train, and then a high-speed ferry to Busan. (I'll talk more about this trip later.)

Things are different now, don't you see? I'm not leaving out of desperation. I'm not sick at heart. Hopelessness and despair and jealousy no longer hold me in thrall. I've forgotten what despair feels like, in fact. It's just as well I didn't put too many maudlin posts up on this here blog, 'cause they'd ring hollow and puerile to me (and you) now.

On the contrary, my return is triumphant. Everything seems to be looking up. I'm not going back just to work, I'm going to have fun. I have an awesome job waiting for me, plus my special girl and our troublemakin' cat. Thanks to my stateside sojourn, I have a new Lensatic compass, an attaché case, a wine-bottle opener, new clothes, and adjusted vertebrae. (I dug into my closet and found my duster coat, my binoculars, and my army-surplus goggles, too.) Plus, I have another month of vacation left. After this jaunt through Japan, I'm spending the rest of my time kicking around Seoul and the northern provinces, checking out all the stuff I haven't had time to see yet. I'm also packaging my second novel (the one about the General Sherman incident) for publication before the end of the year, and finally sitting down and learning Korean. Things are going to be great. Heck, they already are.

And in the coming 18 months, I have all sorts of trips planned. That's right: I'm finally getting to travel like I've always wanted...and like I've always promised you, dear readers. For the Chuseok holiday this year (in September, I believe), Miss H and our friend J from Bucheon will venture into China; in January 2014 there's a road-trip across Australia, plus a beach holiday with Miss H in Malaysia; in the summer of 2014 there will be some kind of jaunt along the Pan-American Highway, possibly on a motorcycle; and in the winter of 2015, for my final hurrah and last departure from South Korea, there will be a grand trip from Beijing to Moscow aboard the Trans-Mongolian/Trans-Siberian Railways.

You'll get to hear about all this on the blog. Of course.

After that will come my glorious return to the U.S. of A, wherein will resume my flying career (also blogged about) and a rewarding foray into radio journalism and punditry. And the novels (the big ones, the sci-fi series I'm always rattling about) will get published somewhere in there, too.

See the difference? I have prospects now. I'm not just going to Korea to keep my head above water and pay off my loans. (Those are almost all gone, by the way.) All my waiting and hard work, years of it, are finally paying off. I can now settle back and enjoy myself some. At last there's the promise of a wondrous future and fulfilling life ahead. It was always there—it never really went away—but it was mighty invisible for a time.

Water under the bridge. I no longer feel like I'm pedaling toward my goals on a rusty unicycle with a bent rim and a flat tire. Now I've got me one of these:

And, though the road be hard and long, Miss H and I shall persevere.

Let the games begin.

NMOC

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.

long story short...

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.

weekly installments

Another lacuna! I've neglected the blog once again. I'll offer the usual excuses. Work has been even nuttier than usual in the rush leading up to my final week. I'm done at the end of February and there's tests to grade, comments to give, and a presentation contest to conduct. I have an exciting new job lined up, though, which I'll fill you in on soon.

But that's not what I want to talk to you about today. I want to talk about the regular posts I used to do. Cocktails, travel destinations, et cetera. I let the travel thing slide because I hadn't been to most of the countries I was talking about, and posting about them felt hollow and fraudulent. I still do the occasional cocktail review, but only every month or two.

I'd rather like to get back into doing weekly/monthly installment posts again. Regular columns, if you will. It'd give me an excuse to blog more often and it'd be more fun for you, the reader. You'd get a series of short posts about nothing important, instead of all these honking long and doughty ones.

Here's what I think I'll do. Aviation posts have been thin and far between since I came back to Korea, for obvious reasons. So I think I'll start doing an "airplane of the week" column. I'll post a lovely picture of some unusual aircraft (or a mundane airplane in a fantastic setting) and let you mull over it. Something nice and easy to keep aviation a part of this blog.

I have access to a lot of awesome sci-fi art, too, so maybe once a month I'll put up a fascinating digital painting or a computer-generated image to stimulate your imaginations (and remind you why I'm into science fiction).

And of course I'll keep up with the cocktail reviews. More often, in fact. And I'll share more frequent tidbits about Korea, as promised. Maybe I'll even make it a column: "Korean tidbits, episode 34" or something.

That's all I can think of for now. Stay tuned. This blog is going to have a lot more eye-candy from now on.

                                                                                                                                             Original art by Bill Watterson

Yes. That kind of eye-candy.

your humble foreign correspondent?

Okay, here's the deal:

My contract with my current hagwon expires in mid-February. As a courtesy I've agreed to stay on until the end of that month and the conclusion of the current semester, just so I can finish up my classes and let my replacement start from a clean slate.

In the meantime, though, I need to find myself another job.

I figured I'd just get another teaching position down in Anyang where Miss H works. That plan went to crap a couple of weeks ago, when Miss H was informed that her school would be downsizing and (once again!) she'd have to be let go. This is the second time it's happened to the poor girl and she's rather downcast, but soldiering on courageously.

All the same, we didn't know what we would do. It was looking like we'd both be homeless and jobless at the end of February. But then one of my coworkers, a sweet young lady from Connecticut, drew my attention to something. It was a job posting on a popular ESL teacher's website and forum. The position was for a writer-editor with the NE Times and NE Times Kids, two periodicals edited by a single combined staff. I wasn't sure what kind of periodical it was (I later found out that it was a weekly kids' educational newspaper). But I applied regardless. Fifteen vacation days per year and a "competitive" salary—not to mention a chance at building my résumé—were too good to pass up.

The paper is based in the Mapo district of southwestern Seoul, just north of the Han River. This would be a heck of a commute from Anyang every morning, but I figured that was worth the price too.

Well, the Times called me back two weeks ago. They wanted me to come in and take their written test. I did it two Saturdays ago. Wish me luck, folks, I thought. This could be a whole new stage in Postie's life. I might soon be living like Hemingway, a print journalist in a foreign capital, rubbing elbows with great writers and luminaries.

The writing test went fine. I knocked it out of the park. The proctor (and my potential supervisor), a man I'll call J.S., told me that the test would probably take three hours. I did it in an hour and a half. I left the building feeling confident, shivered my way to the subway station and returned home.

A short while later, I was called in for an interview. My heart fairly quaked with excitement. I had passed the first round of the application process! I had gotten a callback! It was interview time! And for once, I felt that part went well, too. Normally I don't do very well in interviews. The close scrutiny of several high-ranking managers, asking me questions like Tell us about yourself and Why do you want to work here and What do you feel you could bring to the table and whatnot, turns me into a stammering mess. But this time (it happened this past Wednesday) everything went fine, I felt. I answered questions competently and without hesitation. J.S. and his two female co-interviewers looked quite impressed with my answers. The interview took precisely an hour. I had to wait 30 minutes for the big red intercity express bus, but it dropped me off on my doorstep in Bucheon, and I slept well that night.

Well, the roof fell in yesterday evening. I got an e-mail from J.S., explaining that it had been a heartbreaking decision and I had been second in line for consideration and I had all the talents they were looking for, but they couldn't offer me the position. In the end, they decided to go with someone who had more experience in English education.

I was rather crushed. I felt grateful for J.S.'s honesty and the courtesy with which I'd been treated, though. I understood their decision. But I couldn't help wonder what might have been: me working as a writer and editor in Seoul, Korea. That would have looked pretty good on a résumé. The loss was compounded by the salary I soon learned that I'd missed out on: 3.5 million Korean won per month. That's roughly $1500US more than I was making as an English teacher. Great googly-moogly. That would have made my future a whole lot rosier. Debts paid off, a nest egg accrued, money for traveling...

Ah well, it doesn't do to dwell on the past. I've moved on. Miss H has secured jobs for us at a kindergarten in south Incheon, so we're going in today (Saturday) at 10:50 a.m. for training and contract-signing. We still have to move at the end of February, but at least now we've go somewhere to go. I'm looking forward to taking on a new challenge (teaching at a kindy), exploring a new bailiwick, living closer to the ocean, scooting farther away from Seoul, and being on the same daily schedule as my girlfriend.

I am not, however, looking forward to moving. I'm looking around my apartment here in Bucheon and it seems we've a lot more stuff to shift than I originally thought. I've never moved from one apartment to another in Korea before. It promises to be an...interesting experience. Don't worry, I'll keep you informed.

Wish us luck, and stay tuned.

This will be our new subway stop. I'm looking forward to exploring it, hee hee.

Yeouido Island in winter

I went for a walk today. Not my usual stroll around Jungang Park, oh no. This time I felt so swept up in the winter chill and the muted sunshine and the wiles of my current conquest (the first book of the Airborn series by Kenneth Oppel) that I just had to go all-out. I rode three subway trains and seventeen stops to Yeouido Island and the Han River Park.

This was swiped from The Trail of the Lion King, another Korean blog. I hope they don't mind.

Beautiful, ain't it? It's spectacular in summer, with its gurgling watercourses, green grass, and hordes of colorfully dressed and attractive citizens strolling up and down the sinuous paths.

But somehow it's most beautiful in winter. The grass is brown and the trees are leafless, but the Han River is its same trusty shade of blue-green, the orange sun hangs low in the southern sky, and the icy pink haze in the air makes everything look softer and more mellow.

It couldn't have been a nicer evening. The sun took ages to set. I sat on a bench, the bitter wind penetrating my hood, collar and scarf. I read until it was too cold to sit still, and then I got up and headed west down the southern bank. Even despite the weather, a plethora of people were still out and about. Tiny children swathed in puffy parkas, shepherded by indulgent mothers; teenage girls and their younger siblings on tandem bicycles; grinning, laughing young men on mountain bikes; and scores of young couples walking arm-in-arm. The watercourses were cold and dry in deference to the weather, but the coffeehouses were in full operation. Dozens of young Koreans sipped mochas and cappuccinos and watched the world go by outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Most astounding, however, were the kites. As I passed under the Mapo Bridge and emerged into the fading sunshine on the other side, I spotted several kites in the distance, on a flat grassy area about the size of a junior-league soccer pitch. There were four kites, each of them sickle-shaped like a B-2 Spirit. They moved with such precise coordination that at first I thought they must all be connected by a running line, and controlled by a single person. I was quite wrong. As I approached nearer, the formation of kites abruptly broke up. They wheeled and dove and mingled and looped like courting birds of prey. I was utterly mesmerized. I could not tear my eyes away from the spectacle, which was as riveting as the most thrilling airshow. I stumbled over uneven paving-stones, unmindful of where I placed my feet. As I finally drew within visual range, I discerned four middle-aged Korean men standing on the grassy sward, each of them with a sophisticated set of rings and control lines in their hands. These they were twisting and hurling about as though they were playing a game of Wii tennis. I wondered how many hours of practice it had taken this four-man team to achieve such a degree of surgical preciseness in their maneuvers. They were so skillful that they could manipulate their foils into perfect nose-up landings.

For some minutes I remained rooted to the spot, watching the aerial display. This area, between the Mapo and Seogang Bridges, must have been popular with kite-flyers, for the turf was cheekily populated with bona fide airport signage, delineating runways and taxiways and turn-outs. Grinning within and without, and thinking that the Owl City tunes playing on my iPod were a perfect complement to this idyllic scene, I strode back to Mapo Bridge and walked out upon it. My purpose in visiting Yeouido Island was twofold. I intended to read a book on a bench overlooking the river, and to locate Bamseom Island. This island, or rather the pair of them, were uninhabited piles of tree-lined sand in the middle of the Han River between Mapo and Yeouido. They played an integral part in my NaNoWriMo project. They were plainly visible from shore, but I got a much better view from the top of the bridge. Not only that, but there was quite clearly a sizable sandbar in the lee of the easternmost island: the very spot where, in my book, the steamship strands herself during the climax of the action. I rejoiced at the natural counterpart to my literary imagining. Grinning like a maniac, making the young Korean couples give me a second nervous glance, I strode back across the bridge and back down to the waiting subway, having accomplished both my objectives.

But there was more. Inadvertently I had accomplished a third objective. Lately I've been feeling dissatisfied with my lot. Even though I'm living in a foreign country, I've been feeling bored and left behind. It seems my friends are all off gallivanting around the world or completing their secondary education and acquiring titles and careers. As usual, I can't help comparing myself to my peers, and inevitably viewing myself in a negative light. This little trip to Han River Park changed all that. As I stood at the rail, hearing the water slop over the jagged rocks below, watching the buses chug back and forth across Mapo Bridge and feeling the icy wind brush my unprotected ears, I realized that I have a lot to be grateful for. I have a good apartment, a steady girl, a couple of completed manuscripts on my hard drive, a stable career, a decent paycheck, a half-full bottle of Cutty Sark...and most importantly, an endlessly intriguing and entertaining bailiwick. I found myself giving thanks that I was an expatriate, and that my country of residence was South Korea. However much I badmouth this place in public and private, I am truly glad to be here in East Asia, and especially the Korean peninsula. The food's great, the people are curious and open, and the scenery might seem bland but hides a million surprises.

Thanksgiving may be over, but hey...it's never too late to be grateful.

'Cause what I've got is just enough.

                                                                                                        courtesy of Wikipedia Commons

thoughts on Korea itself

After living in a place for 18 months (soon to be three nonconsecutive years), you get to know it pretty well.

I'm not an authority, but I like to think I've observed the idiosyncrasies of Korean culture with a journalist's eye, and gleaned some insight therefrom.

Sometimes I feel like I'm not properly documenting those insights, though. I mean, I've posted plenty about the quirks of living in Korea. I've never actually stepped back and written a comprehensive treatise on the fundamental differences between Korea and the western world, however. After all, it's not easy to describe a country where vegetable gardens are squeezed into the meager margins between buildings and roads; where the two most beloved national heroes are remembered for inventing the Korean alphabet and whooping hell out of the Japanese Navy, respectively; where howling ambulances stop for red lights and city buses blow them; where pop songs are written and performed for the launch of new mobile phones (and frequently top the charts); where hordes of tiny schoolchildren in matching uniforms are herded about on field trips, attached at the waist by a running line; where trash bags are piled under trees on the sidewalk rather than in dumpsters or trash cans; where a tiny reading lamp costs fifty dollars; where a shop can increase its curb appeal by painting a pidgin English phrase on its front window; where the people sprinkle sugar on ham sandwiches and corn dogs; where neon swastikas are hung everywhere (being, as they originally were, Buddhist good-luck symbols); where the most popular pizza toppings are sweet potatoes and corn; where soccer and baseball are religions, not mere sports; where cans of Spam are given as luxury gift items, like flowers or wine bottles or fine chocolates; where things like limes and turkey are unheard-of exotics; and where one may find bread-flavored soda pop, aloe vera juice, canned guava, squid jerky, and red ginseng candies on any supermarket shelf.

Korea can be a weird place.

And yet it's not so different from back home. The skyscrapers look the same. The apartment buildings are a bit different than what we're used to, but they all conform to the same cookie-cutter design. People drive on the right side of the road. The stoplights and roadsigns are recognizable. One may easily find a McDonald's, Costco, Burger King, Chevrolet, Dunkin' Donuts, 7-11, Hyatt, Starbucks, Hilton, or Pizza Hut on any street corner. (There's even Taco Bell, Subway and Quizno's in places.) English is written everywhere, and spoken almost as much, particularly in the urban areas. There are toilets, running water, electricity, and so much free Wi-Fi that it makes one's head spin. Everybody, down to the last twelve-year-old child, knows who Maroon 5 is, and David Beckham, and Tom Cruise.

There are times when I can readily believe I'm living in a foreign country. Other days, it hardly seems apparent at all. Those are the days when that phrase I learned in college ("global village") hit me hard. The world truly is becoming one. That may be a good thing for international relations and cross-cultural understanding, but we may learn (too late) that it also erodes cultural boundaries. I'm sure no Korean from the 15th century would even recognize his home country these days. And for me, your humble correspondent, it hardly seems worthwhile to write florid travel articles and in-depth treatises about a place that's so highly Westernized.

I need to get out of here. Like Paul Gauguin, I feel the need to escape from "everything that is artificial and conventional." After I finish up my two years here, I'm going off the grid. I'm going someplace that's so drastically different from the U.S.A. that I won't know which way is up. The toilets will flush in the opposite direction—if indeed there are any flush toilets. I won't be able to read the alphabet; almost no part of the native tongue will owe its roots to English. The buildings and shopfronts will be strange, eldritch, alien, of unrecognizable architectural roots and filled with unknown purpose. People's clothes will be radically different, the local customs' functions almost unguessable. The food will be delicious but totally foreign. Western fast food chains and designer stores will not exist. Cars will be few and far between, and those dented and dusty. The roads will be narrow and hardly paved. Civilization will be younger, narrower, more old-fashioned, less quick, less harried, less pretentious.

I've survived life in urbanized East Asia. Now it's time for a breath of fresh air.  

Dostoevsky revisited

As none of you are currently aware, I just finished rereading Fyodor Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground. It is and shall remain one of my favorite books of any genre. For the longest time I was never able to say exactly why. It resonated with me, certainly; I could relate to the corrosive, self-deprecating tailspin of insecurity and the crippling, isolating lack of self-confidence. (It was the hallmark of my school years—where, like Dostoevsky's unnamed protagonist, I looked upon my ant-brained classmates and their crude ambitions with disgust.) But thanks to Dostoevsky's evocative style, and the quality translation which preserved it, Notes from Underground interested me—compelled me—far more than any other work I read in school. The exact reason eluded me.

Then, on this third reading, more than six years after I first laid eyes on the novel, it hit me.

Dostoevsky hit the nail on the head.

He exposed a universal but uncomfortable truth.

With the jolting truthfulness which no other work has achieved so bluntly and plainly, Notes from Underground lays bare a portion of the human psyche which absolutely rules human interaction and individual ego. And yet, it is the most secretive, skulking, shameful part of us. It imparts a need unto our consciousness which we staunchly deny in public, but furtively—even subconsciously—seek to assuage.

And that need is, simply, the need to be recognized as a worthwhile human being. No, not even recognized—simply acknowledged. 

This is not the weirdest thing I want to tell you about tonight, though. It does have something to do with acknowledgement, rest assured. Listen to this:

I have not yet met the director of the academy where I work.

Weird, right? I've been there four months and I've only seen the guy in the corridors, or ensconced in his office. Mr. Rah is his name. At my first hagwon, the director, Mr. Hwang, met me at the airport, introduced himself, and did everything in his power to make my stay more comfortable. In the present day, Mr. Rah can't even be bothered to introduce himself or ask me how I'm doing. It makes a person feel mighty insignificant, let me tell you. I mean, I realize I'm not much more than chattel as far as he's concerned. I'm a warm body. A brain that know English. A mouth that can teach Korean children. A foreign name Mr. Rah can slap on a newsletter and send to potential customers.

Still, being reminded of that fact is unpleasant. Nay, cankerous.

Two weeks ago at work, Mr. Rah and I had...an encounter. You can't really label it as anything else. It was not a conversation, or even an exchange. The bell had rung for third period. I got up from my desk, grabbed my teaching materials, and sauntered into the hallway. Approaching me down this hallway was Mr. Rah himself, strolling along as though he owned the place. His mouth was set in a firm line. His thick body dominated the narrow space. His idle gaze swept the corridor. Our eyes met. There was no one behind me. We were alone in that passageway. The squeals of bleating children, the thunderous beat of their sneakers and sandals as they charged in through the main entrance, submerged into a pool of silence. The moment stretched into infinity.

With an internal monologue that would've made Notes from Underground's protagonist proud, I wondered what to do. I had been told that it was respectful to bow to Mr. Rah (in the Korean fashion, with a swift jerk of the head) upon seeing him. He was the Great and Beneficent Director and all. My mind and spirit rebelled against the idea. Why should I pay him his due as my employer, when he had done nothing to formally accept me as his employee? What did I owe him? "One good turn deserves another," they'd readily cry at me, but what if the inception of that goodwill is lacking altogether?

And, of course, I decided to comply. I lowered my head to him. I gave an almost spastic yank of my neck. My reluctance must have been painfully obvious. But I did it. Why not? After all, it couldn't hurt. It would force him to acknowledge me. He'd see my show of respect, the extension of goodwill, a selfless act of international cooperation. He'd be compelled—no, forced—to reciprocate. I knew the Koreans by now. They were bound by such laws as these. A cockroach living in Mr. Rah's pantry, eating his rice, could've jerked its head at him, and he would have been forced to bow back, just to calcify the relationship between benefactor and beneficiary. To have left such a gesture unanswered would have been unthinkable, anathema, contrary to millennia of cultural norms.

He didn't bow back.

Far from it. When my head came back up, his eyes had slid away from me, and were pointing purposefully down the hall, already forgetful of my presence. I might have been a dust mote wafting through the air. I was reminded, jarringly, of Aesop's story of the gnat and the bull. But then came the crowning humiliation. Without once looking over at me, Mr. Rah lifted his index finger and made a sort of twirling, hurry-up motion with it, indicating that I was loitering in the hallways and needed to get to class. The bell had rung mere seconds before. I was in the hallway, in the very act of stepping toward Room 203, materials in hand. And yet I received the "get to class, thou sluggard" treatment.  

I stood there for perhaps 5-10 seconds, stunned beyond belief. My mind had caved in. I could not conceive of it. The nerve! The impoliteness! The callousness! How rude! How crass! How impolitic!

And here is where I really channeled Dostoevsky's underground man again. Outwardly, I remained calm. Inwardly, I gnashed my teeth, foaming at the mouth in fury. I squirmed like a worm stuck with a pin. It was too much to bear. I hadn't been insulted; I had been ignored, which was a million times worse. If he'd stuck out his tongue at me as he'd passed, I'd have branded him a loony and contentedly passed the remainder of the day. But being ignored was indigestible, insoluble. I felt like hurling my books at him. Mentally, I stuck out my foot and tripped him as he walked past. I spat on him, hurled invectives at him, plotted the sweetest and vilest of revenges. I even went so far as to ask my coworkers in the staffroom whether intensive courses were voluntary or not. (Intensives, which will take place in August, mean an extra round of morning classes for us, as we metamorphose for a time into a full-blown cram school.) Upon learning that they were, I thought "Hang them! And hang Mr. Rah! I'll take a vacation that week!"

Later, over beers with my friends that night (again channeling the underground man) I calmed down. I mellowed out. In fact, I felt as though I had overreacted (and later regretted feeling this way, and gnashed my teeth again). I was persuaded to believe that Mr. Rah was an odd duck, who took funny turns, and liked to twirl his hands and snap his fingers when the mood took him. Perhaps he was strolling the halls with a sort of restrained but barely-containable jollity about him. I must have tweaked his sensibilities, triggered a reaction, loosened a brick in the emotive dike, and coaxed some strange gesture of gaiety from him. Later, when the beer had worn off, I saw that this was hogwash. One doesn't twirl his fingers with a deadpan expression on his face. Innocuous his gesture may have been, but it made me mad. It wasn't just a personal slight. I sensed some monstrous injustice in his actions, a base incorrectness, a gross discrepancy between zeitgeist and reality. With a wave of his hand, the director had epitomized the callous Korean (nay, Asian) corporate mindset, which holds that people on the lowest rung are mere bugs compared with the executives. They can be bullied, coerced, taken advantage of, and ignored in equal measure.

Miss H and I took a night cruise along the Han River last evening. As the ferryboat slid under bridges and past the twinkling lights of Seoul (one of the most intentional cities on Earth, as Dostoevsky might have written), we had occasion to meet an American couple. I'll call them Betty and George. They lived in Daegu, and taught at the U.S. military base. Betty had run a half-marathon in Seoul that morning, and George was part of a jazz ensemble, and played concerts and gigs around Korea. Still stung from my encounter with Mr. Rah, I asked George for his opinion of his employers and managers. Did they treat him like a commodity, or like a person? His answer gave me food for thought. He said that the greatest obstacle to proper business relations was the language barrier. The more English the Korean speaks—or the more Korean the foreigner speaks—the more human the relationship. Frostiness becomes friendliness, impersonality fades away, familiarity breeds cooperation and harmony and companionship. Learning the languages, he said, did wonders to improve the interrelation between employer and employee.

To that end, I have resolved to learn Korean to the very best of my ability. I'll lay in wait. I'll let Mr. Rah cruise along, master of his domain, comfortable in his position and his superiority. Then I'll rattle his cage. I'll knock the foundations out from under his castle. I'll be Dostoevsky's underground man, dressed in his finest clothing, going to slap Zverkov and challenge him to a duel. I'll invite myself into Mr. Rah's office, plonk myself down in a chair (maybe even his chair) and say, in flawless Korean, "Howdy boss-man, what's the good word today? You don't know me, because you've never bothered to meet me, but I'm one of your employees. Don't you think it's about time we had a confab and got to know each other?"

And, just like the underground man, I will probably never do it.

That's why I like Notes from Underground.

grinding toward summer

Back in college they taught me that the best way to write hard news articles was to use the "inverted pyramid style." Put the most important information first, and then the next most important, and so on, all the way down to the piddling stuff at the end.

For the sake of your attention span and my carpal tunnel, I'll use that structure for this big-news-updatey post.

Here's the biggie: Miss H has a job. Her recruiter contacted her last Thursday, and arranged an interview last Friday. It was a whirlwind. By Monday she had the job, and her first day was yesterday. It's a kindergarten-age academy, basically glorified babysitting. The schedule is long, but the pay is incredible: 2.3 million baseline salary, plus a 400,000 housing allowance stipulated in the contract. That puts her base pay at 2.7 million. Think of the savings!

She's quite nervous, but like me, it's good for her to be free of that suffocating desert purgatory. She's glad to be out on her own, with gainful employment and an apartment that she can call home. Our days up to now have been filled with the purchasing of proper foodstuffs (apparently I was living a more bacheloresque lifestyle than I'd admitted to myself) and various furnishings and fitments for the apartment. That will change now that we're on different schedules. (She's 9-6 and I'm 2-10.) But we'll be staying close on the weekends. We've already made several exciting trips into Seoul. A while back we went to Yeongdeung-po (and the Costco located there) to bulk up on cheese, oatmeal, sour cream, tortillas, and other hard-to-find necessities. The Saturday after that we went to Yongsan and explored the electronics shopping mall, supposedly the largest in Asia. Not content with that, we went to Jamsil that Sunday (remember Jamsil?) and I returned, after an absence of three years, to the largest underground mall in Asia, COEX.

The two of us are just like peas and carrots again, as the man said. The pain and torment of our long separation have melted away like sugar cubes in an old-fashioned. We've resumed our lives together with hardly a ripple. We've attended several functions and get-togethers, and it's been a sight better going as a twosome than alone. We went to see some stand-up comedy at the Park (that pub I keep mentioning, which someday I shall take some pictures of and do a proper travel article on) two weekends ago, and had some godawful tiny hamburgers which cost 8,500 won apiece. The weekend after we attended a delightful rooftop Cinco de Mayo party hosted by Smithy. I was riding quite high that night, feeling more laid-back and relaxed than I had in months. I had a tin cup that I'd bought for less than a dollar at Daiso, a small general store a block from the apartment complex. I filled it with gin and tonic and cut loose. There were lots of familiar faces—all the foreigners from two different academies, plus some newcomers and even a few of our Korean coworkers. It was marvelous. We started with homemade Mexican food in Smithy's apartment, a sumptuous feast; and then moved to the breezy rooftop where we watched the sun set over the city.

...and on Monday it was back to work for tests, comments, assessments, and a lot of end-of-semester randomness. It's run me ragged. The new semester begins next Friday and I can't friggin' wait. There'll be a lot more vacation time, and the naeshin and holding periods are coming up mighty quick.

Okay, update completed. I would like to inform you that I'm starting a new writing project (labeled Project 25 for no apparent reason). I'm not writing a new piece of work; I'm merely collating all the hundreds upon hundreds of notes, both digital and physical, that I have lying around and compiling them in a blank notebook. Hopefully that notebook will become my master blueprint to completing this here novel series, and not just an untidy jumble of scribble. Time will tell.

Postie out.

P.S. Miss H and I made nachos for dinner a few weeks ago. Don't they look scrumptious? Thank gosh for Costco!