Information Overload

Oh, hey, look at me living on my own!

Here I am, in my apartment. Not feeling lonely! Cause I'm not! I'm BUSY. I also have enough self-reliance to feel completely at ease here, by myself, in my apartment. In fact, I'm going to write a facebook status about it,

"Just LIVIN' THE LIFE in Gwangju! BE JEALOUS!"

Never mind. I'm deleting that. It's too self-obsessed, and I don't want to seem too self obsessed to all of my friends. My hundreds of friends. The ones I could easily call or skype or text on my smart phone or email right now. Emailing's a good idea. I should email more often. There are a lot of people I've been meaning to email, but isn't that why I started a blog...?
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Earlier today, I decided to spend the evening alone, for reasons of 'processing', 'breathing in normal rhythms', and generally 'calming the heck down'. A miserable fever on Monday morning cued me into the idea that perhaps I don't need to participate in every activity available to me right away. Last week's schedule of play practices, Korean language lessons, yoga, hiking, all day teaching and lesson planning, all night dancing and DVD bang movie marathons, and an absurd list of additional activities which filled the spare moments nearly wrecked me.

During a time when "find the post office" is still a high priority item on my To Do list, it seems reasonable to slow down and breathe. My quality of life here remains stellar, top-notch, and seriously worthy of consideration for a second year (parents, grandparents, I said I'm only considering it). Each day is wonderfully and terribly packed with things and people that I LOVE, which brings me to my theme for the next several posts:


Reasons to LOVE Life in Korea. 

Note: The order is highly irrelevant.

1. Toilet Paper.
It's rarely where you want it, and everywhere you'd never think to use it. In the photo provided, you'll first note my friends' expressions of surprise and delight. Though their happy grins actually resulted from the purchase of corndogs in the wee hours of the morning, they could just as easily be pleased by the hanging roll of toilet paper available for their post-corndog hand wiping.

I've yet to handle a roll of paper towels since I arrived two months ago, and this street vendor was located no where near a public restroom. Living in Korea has transformed my once feeble perception of toilet paper's limits. It now serves as my napkins, dusting cloths, Easter egg dyeing table coverage, and looks absolutely normal when placed on my desk at school. To think: I once confined such an obviously multi-purpose product to one dumb room in my house!

2. Childhood Freedom.
I've mentioned the high-spirited energy with which my students blaze through the school hallways, but yesterday an entirely new level of childhood freedom caught me off guard. In the midst of heavy, tedious rush hour traffic, the tiniest passenger I've ever seen swiped his card and stepped onto the bus. Standing no where near the height of my waist, it looked as if the kid had taken his first steps and was rewarded with a city bus pass.

It's doubtful I was allowed to sit in the front seat of the car in that phase of life, and this kid has the nerve to navigate the public transportation system. Bitterness aside, what altered reality did I find here? Let's revive the bitterness for a moment and ask: how often are kids in the US allowed to play on playgrounds by themselves? It's so rare to see gangs of kids in middle class neighborhoods roaming the streets because it's not safe.

In Gwangju, there are kids everywhere. I'd hate to think that they're just one bad public offender case away from what I see at home; but for now, I'm enjoying it. I like believing it's possible for them to run and play safely, under the watchful eye of all the fierce little Korean grandmothers who patrol the streets in their purple puffy coats. It's refreshing.

... more about the grandmothers later, I promise ;)

Moo lie oh (I don't know)

I've started to learn basic phrases by asking my students for suggestions. Beyond the basic 'hello', 'goodbye', and 'thank you', I can now form a coherent series of sentences that sound like "choy young e hay. sarang e yo. sa-tang joo sayo".

It translates to: "Shut up. I love you. Give me candy."

I'm considering making more specific translation requests in the future.
"Teach me something!" may not be enough.

In other news, I'm in a play. :) It will be my first performance since high school, and I'm psyched. The title is "English Made Simple" by David Ives, and it's part of a series of one acts produced by The Gwangju Performance Project through the Gwangju International Center. We'll perform on May 5th and 6th, so apologies for any delay in future blog posts.
I have some memorizing to do...

Perfectly Normal

It's no secret that I'm a sucker for anything relaxing. I regularly fill my living spaces with lavender scented candles and aromatherapy oils, request massage gift certificates for birthday and Christmas presents, and listen to more Enya than most people would consider "healthy". whatever. It works for me. As you can imagine, when I heard about the wonders of  Korean bathhouses, my first question was, "How soon can I go?!?"

A jimjilbang, or traditional Korean bathhouse, offers an inexpensive and luxurious option for anyone interested in a deeply calming spa experience. Grandmothers go, toddlers go, young professionals go. It's a wonderful place for the entire community to celebrate good health; one which might be compared to a top tier American community swimming pool, except separated by gender, located indoors, and enjoyed sans-swimsuits.

On one decidedly overcast and dismal Saturday, three of my friends and I decide to experience it for ourselves. My friend, Brittany, lives near a place called BIG SPO, which looks like a multi-storied shopping center. Following rumors that 'BIG SPO' is simply a misguided romanization of 'Big Spa', we enter the doors and approach the front desk. Some gesturing and shy attempts at pronouncing 'jimjilbang' results in stacks of fresh towels, bracelets with locker keys, and heavy cotton shirts and shorts for each person, all for 7,000 won apiece (a little less than $7.00).

A friendly employee directs us to the locker room, where we change into the baggy cotton outfits that look oddly similar to hospital scrubs. We then proceed to the common area where men, women, and children lounge contentedly, all wearing the matching cotton outfits, eating snacks, watching t.v., and chatting. It's a welcoming, if not unexpected, scene. We wander a bit, enjoying the feel of the heated floors and stepping along a stone pathway intended for foot massage.

Toward the back of the spacious room, a woman opens a tiny door and ducks inside. We follow. Immediately, my feet feel the fire of the smooth, heated rocks that cover the floor. The room itself is toastyhot, quiet, lit with dim lights, and showcases an Egyptian themed mural. With the soft haze of desert pyramids surrounding us, my friends and I lay down our towels and settle comfortably on the heated stones. As we talk quietly, so not to bother the six or so other occupants of the room, three little children approach. They smile, we smile. They sit close to us and chatter softly, occasionally pausing to poke us and say, "Teacher!".

The same scene is repeated as we visit a series of small rooms (curious children included), each one hotter than the last, until we arrive dripping in sweat at a mini igloo room. Welcomed by images of penguins, we happily rest with our feet propped against the walls of ice while our body temperatures return to normal levels. Invigorated, we conclude that it's definitely time for the pools.

At this point, the men and women separate into different rooms. Ciara, Brittany, Justin, and I waltz back into the locker rooms for yet another clothing change... this time with a bit more giggling and statements of "Are we REALLY going through with this?!" We all pause to nervously announce our insecurities ("ughh the sticky rice cakes from the teachers' lounge are going straight to my thighs", "A steady diet of mandoo definitely isn't resulting in a six pack..."), and then drop our towels and step into the chamomile scented wonderland of steaming hot pools.

I think it's fair to say that bodies come in all shapes and sizes. We make a serious effort to stride calmly toward the pools as though it's perfectly normal for us to stand naked in a room filled with a hundred women ranging from age 2 to 82. Our lack of knowledge is made obvious immediately, however, as several grandmother-types police us back in the direction of the showers along the entrance wall. A couple of women offer to share their shampoo and body wash, for which we gratefully thank them. Freshly showered, we turn back around and hop into one of the six or so hot pools in the center of the room.

The next two hours breeze past wonderfully, as we dip our way into one pool after another, spend time in the saunas along the right side of the room, and then return to the pools. one hot. one cold. one cold with heavy water pressure, another with nearly boiling hot water. While the majority of the room is dedicated to pools, the left side is reserved for another activity altogether: exfoliation. We look on from the hot pools as mothers, daughters, and friends vigorously scrub each other using rough cloths. It's somehow a loving gesture to observe, although unfamiliar enough for Brittany to look straight at me and say, "Yeah, I'll sit here in this pool with you, but we're NOT at that level yet."

no kidding.

Eager to maximize on our experience, we inquire about the availability of "massage-ees". To our delight, we find that a massage costs only 17,000 won. AMAZING. We pay and get in a hot tub to wait. Within minutes, three tiny 60-something year old women stride out with the swagger of football linebackers. Two bothered to dress in a bra and panties. One only got as far as the latter. Using swift gestures that say something like, "You paid, now let's get this over with", they motion toward three plastic-covered tables in the far corner of the room. Feeling happy in the scalding hot pool, I assure my friends that I can wait for my turn and watch from a distance.

The term 'massage therapists' seems entirely inaccurate in this context, so I'll just say 'tiny linebackers'. Using every ounce of force at their disposal, the tiny linebackers begin by dumping buckets of hot water over their clients (also inaccurate. I'll use 'naive foreigners'). Next, they reveal two exfoliating cloths each; and, with the gentle touch of someone removing rust with steel wool, they start their work. Expressions of anguish fix themselves on the faces of all three naive foreigners, and I opt to swim elsewhere before I convince myself to ask for my money back...mostly because I have no idea how to ask for my money back.

Twenty minutes pass and it's my turn. My friends walk past me uttering things like, "I'm.so.raw" and "All my skin is gone...". I value their encouragement. The next span of time includes an insane amount of effort to just stay on the table, thanks to the fact that numerous buckets of water poured at regular intervals over slippery skin on a plastic table hardly results in much stability. My giggling does nothing to ease the ferocity of the tiny linebacker, who insists on whipping my arms over my head and then down to my sides, shoving me on my side, and yanking my legs in different directions while she thoroughly scrubs. I can't emphasize the word 'thoroughly' enough.
so. much. exfoliation.

Eventually, it ends. Back in the pools, we decide it was worth it and we feel like champions. Champions of what isn't entirely clear, but satisfaction is definitely present.

We've also agreed to return sometime soon. Our skin feels AWESOME.