In Which Greg Attempts to Post For its Own Sake.

So why is Greg posting again? Because someone bitched. That means someone is reading. So why not post? No seizures recently. However, Greg did try something new today. Fresh, salted-and-fried Mackerel. Fresh as in “not fileted, or even skinned.” It wasn’t bad. Mr. Park continues to be good to his word on the fatherly crap.

So, Greg also got his MC-505 sequencer/synthesizer/drum machine repaired. It works and all. But the %&#$(@ers forgot to re-connect one indicator light. Which is not a huge deal. It’s just enough of a pain in the ass to not be worth a 1 hour trek across Seoul in a Samhwa Express bus.

In other news, Seoul is cold. Really, really, nipple-cracking freezing. It’s 39 today, but that’s the hottest it’s been in ages. This is all easily-ignored if not for the mysterious “rising hemline” phenomenon in Korea. There is an inverse relationship between skirt inseams and temperature. There won’t be much left to the imagination by early January. A lot of women are already needing to strategically locate purses on the way out of the subway. This isn’t a complaint. Just an expression of bafflement.

I’m listening to guitar-based rock again. There must be a Hegel joke here.

Not really anti-religious rant.

Korea has a strong history of christian missionary work. There is nothing wrong with this, in theory. However, there are details of it that just could make those foreign visitors who lean a little toward the secular side twitch, rock forward and backward, and then pound the inside of a closed fist against the side of their head, screaming like an autistic child removed from a beloved inanimate object.

For example, Korean evangelical christianity believes in guerrilla marketing. Men preach on every major street corner during the weekend, and possibly during the week. These men appear to be trilingual, often speaking of the gospel in Korean, English, and Japanese. Now, that’s not a big deal. Here is what IS a big deal.

American Jehovah’s Witnesses only have the presumption to knock on doors and cheerfully inform the residents that they are currently hellbound, although God truly does love you. He’ll give you good things. He just wants your soul. Koreans do this, too. I have to say: “ah-neh-oh, kohn-sam-nee-dah – migook, han-kul ah-neh-oh” – i.e. “No thank you. I’m an American. I don’t speak Korean.” I haven’t learned “let me initiate eternal suffering in peace, please” just yet.

Koreans who wish to convert additionally take the same approach as the truck-based fruit markets in urban areas here. These fruit markets drive around densely-populated areas, always around 8:00 am following a night of you’re-not-sure how many piss-tasting beers, and blast from improvised public address systems (rough translation) “My cucumbers are fucking amazing! I don’t know how you retards EXIST without my flippin’ vegetables! Just look at my beat up truck! You know I didn’t just garbage pick these! My brother grew them, despite the very commercial-looking stickers on them! Don’t buy cucumbers from that asshole up the street! I hear he helps white people deflower your young daughters. He is Half-Japanese! MY CUCUMBERS WILL MAKE YOUR ERECTIONS FIRMER AND YOUR EJACULATIONS STRONGER, GODDAMNIT . . .”

This means that ALL weekend, there are surprisingly WASP-y looking Koreans marching around Seoul looking for incorporeal essences in need of salvation. These people generally march around with sandwich boards and megaphones. Nobody seems to know what they are saying. The sandwich board people must be a step below the street corner people, as one never hears them speak Japanese or English. The upbeat music arranged for 7 strummed guitars and fifteen basses and tenors is just as terrible here, too.

Getting onto the main point now, the effects of this creep into English language education. Since all the christianity in Korea is imported, and fairly recently, the longstanding trends in acceptable biblical names don’t exist. Sure, virtually all Koreans have traditional Korean names.

But most children who attend private English schools are given “English” names. When one gives a child an “English” name, this is usually a complete abstraction. Spelling the name with roman characters appears to be the main qualification. I know a “Bora” and several “Jun”s.

But, now they have a Western character set to tinker with. So, these very vehement christians feel it necessary to give their kids names from THE source of all culture for vehement christians.

Every class that I teach contains at least one kid with an uncommon old Testament biblical name. I teach a Solomon, a David, several Jacobs, a Samuel, two Jeromes, I’ve been told of a 6 year old Abraham, etc. In the adult world, I know at least three Esthers. All of the above become emotionally unstable during attempts to abbreviate or give a common shortened form. One of these Esthers (a teacher) is a major source of the ridiculous names at a Hagwon familiar to those reading this post. Keep in mind that this woman likely named herself Esther. This woman at least claimed she didn’t know who John the Baptist was.

Now, there are very few Marks, very few Peters, exactly two Marys (“Mary one” and “Mary two” – they are called these names directly, as they were in the same class for 2 months – Mary apparently is a common dog’s name here, so it’s not a popular name for little girls), and so on . Why don’t these people all become yids and get on with it? There’s been a brief influx of Pauls lately, which is comforting, I guess.

There are also plenty of old black man names. I’m particularly fond of Alvin.

Furthermore, when was the last time YOU met a 7 year old named Angelina? How about Hillary?

Furthermore, it was a fucking TEACHER who gave a kid the name Solomon. Now, Solomon is about as quick and satisfying to interact with as a 24-hours-after-Outback-Steakhouse turd. Picture a kid who learned his ABCs eight months ago, and just started writing in English, trying to spell that name.

I’d Prefer Not to.

The window overlooks the major intersection of Yeonsu, a minor subdivision of incheon, which is itself a suburb of Seoul. All night, neon flashes in patterns that must have signaled “The Russian prostitutes in here are a lot better than their domestic equivalents!” a quarter century ago. He wakes up at 4 am to piss sometimes. He leaves his vertical blinds open most nights. The digital faux fireworks still imitate upward travel, explosion, and then twinkling.

Sagging banners declaring language and business success for sale cement the seediness. The fireworks are on a building clearly intended for something else. The seafoam and cream facade shows rust stains from a previous occupant.

Nobody believes me when I call Korea a 3rd World/”Developing” or whatever nation.

Public facilities are squat troughs. BYOTP. There are semipermanent human shit smells in urban areas. The subway goes through areas containing row after row of buildings apparently made of trash and clay tile. There are often no parallel lines in buildings for a good 6 minutes at a good subway train clip.

I like it here. My life is great. I have more amenities than I want, more privacy than I ever thought existed, a much cooler apartment than I thought I would have at age thirty, much less 25, and so on. I am adding more adventures to what I am already discovering has been a remarkable life.

I think I’m sort of happy.

In Which Greg has a satisfying weekend.

Greg Schroeder attended a refresher course from his employer this weekend, and discovered that there are even more attractive women in ESL than he initially suspected. No ugly women teach English in this country. He’s convinced.

Furthermore, there ARE men here who can talk about something besides binge drinking and gang rape. They’re Australian. Who knew!?

He ate octopus (delicious) and hugged 2 Free Hugs guys.

Other fun details in Greg’s life . . .

A 6 year old girl in his morning class has begun to explore herself. He has consulted 2-3 different people about this. Every one has told him something different. One can only keep a 6 year-old’s hands busy so many different ways.

She is learning to write with one hand on her desk.

Greg is becoming much better at ironing. He ironed 4 shirts and 3 pairs of pants today. He also cleaned his apartment. That was pretty gross.

Things are good.

Next month he will start taking Korean lessons. Thank science.

.

A brief discussion of iPod dependency.

Perhaps a symptom of Greg’s infatiguable “Uh, sure” mindset, he has taken to using the “autofill” feature on iTunes to put Random Shit on his iPod every morning. Sometimes there is Palestrina, often there is Flipper, other times it is the audio supplements to his Korean book that he can’t get off his damn playlist and he is too lazy to learn to write an applescript, much less actually write one, that would let him categorize it as an audio book.

Greg listens to his iPod every morning riding one of the two bus routes identified as “6-1.” He has to read Hangul (korean writing) to distinguish between the two. This took longer than one would think to master. 3 cab rides, to be exact. He is tired of taking the stares in silence. They’re easier to ignore listening to some obnoxious mix of bad rock, acid house, and tape-loop audio collage.

So, now Greg listens to his iPod in the office writing lesson plans, making flashcards, and photocopying. He got tired of hearing the monotone staccato of Korean he doesn’t understand, so he drowns it out. Effective, really. His desk has become a zen garden. He is a better teacher. He knows that the screaming will end for awhile during lunch, and the blank stares and indistinct consonant sounds during the afternoon and evening are periodically interrupted by the dull hum, flashing green light and then repeated click of making flashcard upon flashcard and 12 copies of a really mundane writing assignment.

That is all.

The Quick Version of the currently-ending weekend.

This has been an eventful first weekend in Korea.

Greg moved into his own apartment, but there are a few snags. Granted, it’s better than his previous accomodations, but here are his reservations.

-The previous tenant was involved with the Korean equivalent of Mary Kay. This creates some surreal circumstances.

The huge window with a great view is covered in a deep pink cling wrap with some Korean writing and a phone number in Arabic numerals.

As one enters the apartment, there is a huge poster advertising “Dermaesthetics ‘ Beverly Hills Formula of U.S.A., INC.”

Greg has inherited a bamboo plant. It will require a name. Further bulletins to come.

He has also inherited a pink hippopotamus that sprays air freshener. She lives next to his toilet. She may require a name, also.

The wallpaper is trashed. Greg’s employer assured him that it would be replaced. Greg does not like the idea of wallpaper installation while he isn’t home. He spent almost 5 hours on its initial cleaning.

The night before moving into this soon-to-be-happening-bachelor-pad, Greg went out with a new friend. No, not a girl. There is a batshit-crazy Canadian guy living in the apartment next to one of Greg’s coworkers. His name is Brad. Brad likes to drink very much. He also likes filipinas. There are bars, not brothels, where one buys a girl eight dollar iced teas for the privilege of talking with her as long as you are buying her eight-dollar iced teas. Greg bought the girl that Brad invited over “for [Greg]” 3 rounds while Greg drank a beer. Over. Rated. Greg and said Filipina talked about Shania Twain while several of her coworkers did a pathetic song and dance show.
As a footnote, the Canadian wore a sport coat over a black turtleneck and slacks. Classic toucher attire.

Greg’s first grocery shopping trip was frightening. He will discuss E-Mart in detail later.
Saturday night Greg went out with his two male coworkers. They had a huge pitcher of beer and a pile of 1/2 chickens. It was yum-licious.

Sunday, Greg went sightseeing in Itaewon, with someone he met on a message board for foreign English teachers in Korea.

The trip began predictably. Greg didn’t ask for directions. Mind you, he has an English-speaking coworker who travels to Itaewon regularly. The audience knows Greg’s fondness for doing this sort of thing. “Things will work out,” he will assume. As if the gods reached down to fulfill Greg’s prophecy, a very old and wise Korean man decides he will help Greg reach his destination.
Now, for ANY OTHER LOCATION in Greater Seoul, this would be simple enough.
Unfortunately, getting from the Incheon line to the Korean metro system’s orange line defies metaphor. After about half an hour on a total of 2 subway trains, the old man tells Greg it’s time to exit the train. The old man accompanies Greg. A transit cop tells the elderly man that they are best served walking, or getting a cab. Being an old man and, well, Greg, the two are not about to pay 5 bucks on top of the buck Greg (Seniors get free unlimited subway use) just paid to get this far. After about 1 kilometer, the old man says either “Fuck it,” or “Here you go. I will not accompany you one more Kilometer because I’d like you to maintain your dignity with the person you are meeting.” This man speaks no English, and Greg still isn’t sure why the man did this. Greg doesn’t even know this man’s name. The Man With No Name refused offers of something to drink, a meal, etc.
A 2 buck cab ride later, he is at the assigned meeting location; Burger King, Itaewon.
Greg recommends a Korean meal. Said someone from internet informs Greg that there are no Korean restaurants nearby. Greg curses the need to eat Kentucky Fried Chicken, Subway, McDonald’s, Burger King, Outback Steakhouse, or Dunkin’ Donuts at luxury prices.
Greg ate a value meal at Burger King. BBQ Bacon combo, with a Coke. Koreans do not put ice in Coca Cola. They also do not use disposable cups. The meal cost about six bucks.
Greg got to see a used book store (“What the Book” – he didn’t think it was very clever, either), and picked up a few titles. He purchased Naomi Klein’s “No Logo,” a book on the theory of history that he purchased because of a quote from a “The Nation” review and a skim that cited Herodotus. He also picked up a standard high school English class short story compilation, and a dual-language English-Korean copy of “Lord of The Flies.”
Greg and said person he met via internet saw a temple that was, uh, awesome. (Some Korean dude said “Look, I’m such a badass, that I will waste retarded volumes of space with my playground and then put huge, gated empty spaces around that. There will be limestone dragons, and every imaginable mammal dressed as a Korean warrior and standing at attention. Everything’s going to have these totally sweet symmetrical patterns painted all over with more detail than makes any sense. Then I’m going to have REAL warriors marching, beating drums and standing at attention and shit. They won’t be allowed to move, ever.”)

Then, the two of them went to an open market in a place called Jongno. Jongno is Korean for “Tourist trap.” Just kidding.
There was much pretty craftiness, men beating rice paste for cakes with wooden mallets, beautiful furniture, an overwhelming volume of jewelry, much coffee and tea, elaborate contemporary art everywhere, etc.
Greg, being Greg, forgot his camera. He will return with his camera.
The afternoon ended with a trip to “Cowboy Cafe.” The two drank Pina Coladas and then Tequila Sunrises. They went their separate ways and Greg listened to his iPod on the subway trip home. Thankfully, he got a subway map.

————–

My deepest apologies to all who are getting delayed responses to email.

I am hijacking wifi access from someone in my apartment building. This is a) unreliable and b) technically illegal.

Please rest assured that I am doing fine. I should have a phone shortly. Promise. I will have an address tomorrow. Use certified mail. The postal service here is bad.

Pictures of my apartment are pending. It’s not furnished yet. It’s an open floor plan/loft/whatever with a 2-burner stove, a fuzzy logic washing machine, a sink, and a bathroom that is awesome. The bathroom has a drain near the door. This is where the water drains from the shower. Apparently, Koreans put on socks and pants after all their other needs are met in the morning. My bed is in the loft area. The loft area is 5′ high. It works? I have clothes line-drying constantly.

I am terrible at ironing.

In which things further improve.

The process of gettin’ legal began this morning. “John,” the school’s director, drove Greg and Peter to the immigration office. New York city drivers, for example, are a yawn next to Jeonsu. Things Greg and Peter saw during today’s drive:

5+ blatant red light violations (just the vehicle that John was driving)

3 U-turns away from intersections

2 U-turns in 3-4 lane in each direction four-way intersections.

3ish near misses with mopeds.

Let’s remember that this is from a principal at a kindergarten.

His child safety locks were activated.

Greg and Peter also managed to give away their passports for at least a week. Technically, one needs a passport to open a bank account. Greg and Peter are concerned.

Greg Schroeder’s job expectations are nil. He largely does the hokey pokey and reads out of a really bad phonics book.

He needs to document all of the above in lesson plans. He hasn’t done any work at home just yet. He is also arriving at work at 8:30 am and staying until 7 pm most days. Somehow, this doesn’t seem so bad. He gets pretty good Korean food for free every day during lunch.

There are pretty Korean girls teaching with him (I suspect the students learn something from these women), tolerable to endearing American coworkers, and the screaming, drooling mob is growing on him. First, it was the little girl running away from her mother during a conversation to hug his leg, look up, and smile the way nobody does past age 7.

Then, “Woods” (“Like Tigah Wewds,” according to one of the aforementioned Korean teachers) plays a little prank on Greg. This requires some background.

First, this story assumes you have been around 5 year olds before. If not, you’re SOL.

Otherwise, the school these children attend is 4 stories high. At the end of the day, all the students meet on the 4th floor, in the gym, to say goodbye or something. Greg teaches a class on the 3rd floor.

Classes are notoriously very late for this final meeting. This leads to much screaming, throwing coats and primary colored backpacks, running, and squealing.

The students in Greg’s class use the elevator to move from the 3rd to the 4th floor for the meeting.

Greg herds the class into the elevator. Everyone, even “Kate,” who never does the hokey pokey, is in there. Greg pushes the button, theoretically sending the elevator to the fourth floor. Nothing happens.

Repeat four times.

Greg hears a distinctive giggle.

Woods has been holding down the “door open” button for about 3 minutes. Percy, Sophie, Amy, John, Dave, and even Kate knew it. Everyone except Woods was controlling their laughter. Once again, working with pre-k and kindergarten kids is the only way to know the look on these faces. Somewhere between “This is intoxicatingly fun!” and “You aren’t going to retaliate in a million years so I will do whatever the fuck I want.”

Greg was about to wring Woods’ neck. Okay, not really.

Baby steps.

Work remains drudgery.

Less overwhelming, but drudgery nonetheless. Classroom control is the worst problem. It is mostly a symptom of failed attempts to filling the remainder of forty minutes that the beloved hokey pokey, “Good morning class,” “Good morning, teachah Glehg!” writing uppercase and lowercase letters by specific mapping, or having students repeat the words “book,” “school,” “cat,” “boy,” “girl, “children,” etc. indefinitely does not fill.

The number of books that choose “alligator” for an early example of letter “a” usage disturbs me deeply.

One perk is the endearing obedience of these jabbering small humanoids when relieving or refreshing themselves.

A quiet “wat-uh” or “bafroom” (maybe “toy-let”), a loud-ish door closing behind them, and they return in a reasonable time.

My sorrows are such that I will plunge them into rice-based wine now. Good evening/day, all of you. Rooming with a mick from Little Italy who has taugh esl for years does not help.

I am taking my medication and being gentlemanly with my drink. There are no pictures of funny things. There is some Engrish around. Expose paper to sunlight moderately I will and donate representation to public eye gracefully.

Arrival.

Greg Schroeder arrived at Incheon International Airport yesterday at roughly 8:30 am local time. He was fortunate enough to sleep through the vast majority of the journey (Thanks in part to free beer from Korean Airlines) (What airline serves free beer?!)

He is temporarily stuck sharing a single loft with a guy from New York whose name he has already forgotten. He is exasperated with his boss/contact (?) with his employer. He went shopping for a few household staples, including a ton of the Korean equivalent of ramen. His total bill was around 212 bucks.

There’s not a lot else to tell. He desperately wants his own place. He got to bed early, and went out for a walk around 5:30 am.

I think that’s all for now.