Ahhh… I am going back to KCI on Monday. Today is Sunday, nearly 1 hour in to the last day of my vacation. It’s actually kindof an interesting signpost for me. August, Sept, Oct, Nov, Dec. 5 months. I’ve been here five months. When I got here, I started off with summer English camp, first week with no kindergarten at all. I hate English camp. It’s two kids and a teacher and you are not used to them and it’s a little boring. Last time I was spankin’ new and really didn’t know what I was doing or what I should be teaching, so I just realiy did nothing for about a week. I think it’ll be interesting to see how I do this time as a little more seasoned of a teacher. I know the kids now, and I know what they should be learning, and I’m not afraid to talk to them. But OH how I hate English camp. I suspect there’ll be a lot of crosswords going around. I plan to bring my laptop and play Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego with at least my 2 Elementary Advanced classes. That should be interesting. I wonder where I put that disk…. did I mention it's crazy snowing? yay!

Happy Holidays!

This is snowboarding at Pyeongchang

The Cafeteria Trend

This is a pretty common sight in eating trends in South Korea, it seems: Cafeteria-style fooding. Firstly, you approach a brightly-lit display case featuring plastic replicas and tiny placards of what could be coming to a plate near you very soon. everything from Mul-naem-young, KimBap and Donkaas, to a large bowl meant for sharing of many people guest starring various seafood parts. I try to peer closely trough the glass at the replicas in attempt to denote what KIND of meat is "in there," but to no avail. Here's what I think I know: if it's a little red, it's probably imitation crab. If it has tentacles or suckers; squid.
Anything tubular and a sickening brown, over-boiled color is probably some sort of animal’s ass-tasting intestine. It’s best to go with your gut on this one and steer clear of this big bowl. You pick your entree and write it down on a piece of paper if you can't remember it, or if you're too intimidated to try to pronounce it. Approach the cash registers situated not too far from the display, and sound it out. "H-har-ree-oo-deh-bohk-eum-bap, jewseyo (please)." "you peer up anxiously and a little proud at your attempt at the hangul. The woman behind the counter smiles politely and hands you a reciept with a food stall # and a food order #. You find a table--I prefer to sit by the window, looking out from the fifth-story room onto the busy main street of downtown Cheonan, car lights and gaudy neon signs from “leechard prohaiya” on every-other-block corner sparkling in the evening rain. But then again, so does everyone else, so sometimes you have to settle for a seat by the watercooler. You look with each chime of the constant bing-bong! calling up digital numbers while you sit and wait in a little plastic chair like at the DMV where you’ve taken your number like everyone else but it seems with each bing! someone else is called forward, and with every bong! you start to think that maybe you should clear your schedule because obviously you’re not going anywhere anytime soon; but just like that you keep staring with a vague hope of the knowledge that one of those kitchens is making my food right now. and then at last! The restaurant/kitchen on your ticket flashes #124. Your number! well finally. You spring up like a fool prizewinner at an auction. You trade your ticket for a tray of food that looks similar to the thing in the display case up front although not so bright and shimmery, pick up some silver chopsticks and a spoon to the left of the man in the apron and funny hat, and off to your table you carry your dinner accompanied by a side of a light soup and kimchi. always kimchi. Eat.

Six Coins

I have six coins in my pocket. None of them is a nickel. Together they make Zero dollars, no cents, and W100; mostly worthless but for the weight in my vest pocket as I walk downtown. They should be stuffed into the box on my bookshelf behind the five books I allowed myself to bring with me, along with the $20 bill I never bothered to exchange. Nonetheless they’re here in without explanation. In my pocket. This is where I want them. I had thrust my hands inside my pockets to shield them from a blast of biting cold. I found, to my delight, curiously misshapen USA coins of all shapes, color, and sizes, clinking alongside a clunking W100. Today I am walking along the busy highway. The trees have gone nearly bare, their leaves are heaped heavily along the creases of the sidewalk like thick eallow pit stains that no one has interest to hide away. They are slowly fading to brown. I shuffle through the heavy drift, breathing quick, short breaths. Little white puffs appear in front of my face.
My left hand closes round my mp3 player. My right hand, inside my vest pocket clutches six coins.
The Dime. A slip of coin so small and easily lost between the couch cushions or through a hole in my jacket I caress the tiny wafer, between my thumb and run it along the length oof my index finger. It is so light that I am careful not to rub it all the way in.
The Quarter is thicker than he dime but not as thick as that W100. Amassed with textured indentures my thumb attempts to memorize every crease of my first president’s (and the namesake of my home state) face. Contented, I rub the Quarter against my dime, feeling the crude grating of one textured metal against another, hearing only the raw wind against my face, speeding cars, and dismal horns that fail to state their case effectively as they speed along the highway. I imagine that the sound of the coins match the shape and texture of the action I sense between my fingers. and I bite my teeth into a determined grip against the wind.

My coins. My coins and my pocket.

I grasp the quarter then the 100 won,, smooth and heavy. Thicker. Both possess a serrated edge but one is elaborated, wafer-like; the other is bold. Bearing simply 100.
Three copper coins jingle joyously in their wanting monotony of identicality. Worthless even more here than in their home country. There has been talk even of voting this coin out of existence period. Three copper coins clinking craftily. When I was little, I would gather these copper coins fervently. I would stuff them into paper rolls, stacking them inside like a butcher making hotdogs. A person would drop a penny and not bother to pick it up, to much effort for so little coin. I would stack their value until I had earned enough to fill the tube. Then I would take it to the Exxon station and buy those 25 cent boxes of lemon drops, or sour apple candies. When you drop a penny, what’s the point in picking it up? What are you going to do with it, anyway? Give it away to a kid who uses it as play money, or stash it away, because, well, what else will you do with it? Occasionally I’d find a Canadian coin amongst my collection. No one will take those, it’s just too much hassle. What’ll I do with this? Toss it aside, I guess.
I have six coins in my jacket pocket. What am I going to do with them, anyway? I toss them around, maybe rub them together. It’s a little joke between me and my coins. A foreign sounding “hello” to my right is followed by a torrent of roaring giggles. My eyes bulge in their big American sockets, I flutter my natural-born beautiful eyelids and giggle back. Oh my god she’s so different!

I have six coins. They may as well be buttons. And they’re all so different. A quarter, a dime, three pennies, and W100.

Inagural Post

Here it is, my first blog on blogger.com. It took me a while to figure out how to set this up, because every time I approached the website it came up in Hangul. And As I do not understand th Korean language in such great detail, I was aptly confused. Finally, I decided to try to google the damn thing. I typed in Blogspot English and Yay! here I am.

So here it is, my inagural Blog. Hana, Dul, Set, Net, Go!

Much More to Come
Love Sus