SITTING IN the Business Room booth of a Tom N Toms Coffee shop, listening to Korean R&B mismatched with ridiculous music video (angry Korean jamiroquai), having finished a large Hot Chocolate with whipped cream -- yawning, should have opted for a higher caffeine/gulp ratio -- Our Hero contemplates the next stage of his life.But first, we must recount the past few months of the current one.
* Ice-fishing festival!
Allow me to explain the wonders of ice-fishing. There are none. It is entirely without wonder. Freezing ridiculosity, however, it's got in spades. Literal, jabby, tree frog-poison-tipped spades.
You know that nature clip of the bear that stands in the middle of a fish ladder, waiting for absurdly sex-crazed salmon to jump into its jaws? This... was nothing like that.
[DISCLAIMER TO THOSE OF YOU WHO DON'T ENJOY SOMEWHAT GRAPHIC, WHIMSICAL DESCRIPTIONS: THERE BE BALLS AHEAD.]
Imagine a circular pool filled with circulating, sub-zero water, and a few fish. Now add a heaping handful of foolish foreigners, red-blooded (for the moment), and ready to verify their virility vis-a-vis vasectomy, and you can begin to appreciate the proverbial plunge taken by Our Hero and his compatriots.
To explain a little less alliteratively, it was COLD. The air was cold, the water was cold, the ground was cold. My feet were not cold; in fact, they weren't anything. As far as my brain was concerned, I was coasting towards the next ice age on a few clumsy stumps. No wait... that presupposes that any of my higher mental functions were at all involved in this fiasco. Let's relegate the blame to the South. It's usually their fault. (And here, I'm going to exploit English's lack of a dual possessive pronoun, and pretend I'm talking about something other than my gonads.)
In any case, I shuffled into position around the arctic pool, ready to prove possession of what I was in all probability about to freeze off. Bearing this in mind, I can rationalize the next five minutes of the announcer's jaw-flapping as the analogue to the doctor-recommended waiting period before a normal sex change operation. Or so it strikes me now; at the time, had I been able to take two successful steps in a row, I'm pretty sure I would have torn off his arms and beat him to death. But only because that's the method that generates the most heat.
Concluding his pre-schadenfreude spiel, the announcer hit a gong and shooed us into the pool. I immediately regretted, in order of terribleness, 1) my decision come to Korea, 2) the day I was born, and 3) the day I was born with testicles, who, with a Costanzasque cry of "SHRINKAGE!", dove back into my body, a pair of Punxsatawny Phils who'd seen their shadows.
My body now running sans brain and balls, there was little chance of me ever catching a fish -- hypothermia was much more likely. I splashed around for awhile, combing the corners, shallows, and depths of a level-bottomed, circular pool. But to say that I "fished" would be stretching it.
I touched a few fish. Some of them bumped into my legs. Others swam through my frigid digits. Around me, I could see people stuffing their catches into their t-shirts, looking like the world's most desperate shoplifters. Yet the slimy buggers eluded me, taunting like only mute, unblinking creatures can.
After some time, I became aware of two things. First, the longer I stayed in the pool, the lower my chances actually got of catching a fish. Even if a wily trout jumped into my hands, I'd be hard pressed to do anything but hi-five his moxy before he slipped back into the water to brag to his friends. Second, and perhaps owing to the universality of this condition, I was the only person left in the pool. People were counting down, then the gong sounded for the second time. I trudged over to the stairs leading out amid applause that was probably out of sheer wonder. Whether it was at my hardiness or near-Darwin Award foolishness, I'm not sure.
Warming up in the tent was worse than the pool. If the freezing ordeal I'd just suffered was like doing a power-hour with tequila, this was the morning after. Nerves screaming back to life, my body felt like it was on fire from the inside. It was the worst pain I've ever felt, and there was no way to stop it; I was on the wrong side of the pain -- unlike fire or needles or electricity, this wasn't pain that stops when you withdraw from the source, but pain you must go through to get back to normal. It felt like all my teenage growth spurts packed into five minutes. It was hell.
Obviously, the next time I do this, I'd better catch a damn fish.
* Lunar New Year
Our next stop along painful memory lane... just kidding.
[YOU MAY NOW RESUME READING. AND PRETEND YOU DIDN'T READ ALL THAT ABOVE.]
I'm just gonna come right out and say it: I love me some Korean pancakes. They (pajeon) are the best thing evarrr. Yes, the soup has the power to make you a year older -- Koreans age like they do everything, en masse, with much fanfare and tasty food. The moment you slurp a magical spoonful of the stuff, you gain a year. The next few spoonfuls are... bland by comparison. But not the magically delicious pancakes, which can be eaten without such dramatic aging effects.
Joowon cooked everything, and we even got to try her mom's kimchi. It was kimchilicious. There is no other word. None.
All the ladies wore Hanbok.
Deliciousness.
Magic soup. Probably the only thing a Korean would eat while knowing it ages you.
We did not eat Juni. We fed him.
* Ridiculous Photo Roundup
"Premium Deep Sea Drinking Water From 1,032m"
If you can tell me how the best sea water comes from the bottom of the ocean, then I've got part of a bridge to sell you.
Not an uncommon sight.
Some other little clay dude is in for it.
No, it's not real soju. Yes, it does have a tiny soju bottle opener. Yes, real soju has a screw top. No, I don't get it either.
Trendy Wendy is kind of a jerk.
I have no idea.
Only Kyle will get this...
.... but Dibblah-san (AKA Bob's Barbie) does an ok meat pie.
I call these "Thirst Wagons."
Occasionally, Seoul is surprisingly gorgeous.
Case in point.
Now, THIS guy's a team player.
History should always be enshrined in something that is only slightly less cool-looking.
Straight out of Animaniacs: The Goodfeathers.
I'm convinced that this is Giant Christian Bale.
Su, the coolest band in Seoul plays outside the Gage bar on weekends. Watch. The first clip is pretty much an entire song. In the second, there is a kazoo.
wOOt.
* The Visit
Apologies for the repeat posting of pictures, but unlike some of the more guileless (less guileful?) internetoids out there, I've not granted facebook access to every person I know. But in a BitE exclusive, I've almost finished cobbling together a highlight reel... for the next post. Until then, sate thy appetite with...
* Classroom Chronicles
Yes, it's another installment of what I hope will soon be a short-lived series on FOX. Enjoy.
Our Hero, attempts to convey the idea of euphemisms to young students.
Me: When we want to say something that may be too rude or inappropriate, we find a nicer, more general way to say it. For example, when you "go to the restroom", you're not actually going to a room to take a rest, right? It's like that.
Student A: So yoopemijim is rest? Instead of poop?
Me: Uh... sure. Kind of. Like, "passed away" means "died", and--
Student B: Teacher, I know yoopemijm for restroom!
Me: Really? I mean, restroom is a euphemism. See, "rest" isn't --
Student B: BOWEL MOVEMENTUH. I do in bowel room.
Me: .... no, not quite. That's pretty much the opposite. That's very specific, and --
Student B: Movementuh room?
Me: Closer, maybe. You know how when someone dies, we say they "passed away"? It's --
Student A: Oh, shitroom teacher?
Me: Nononono. Er... pooproom is fine. Let's all go to page 97.
Our Hero attempts sarcasm, as the kids ask him his age:
Kid A: Teacher, how old?
Me: How old what?
Kid A: How old you are?
Me: 75.
Kid A: Nuh uh, teacher!
Me: Ok, you got me. 76.
Alex: How come you are teaching, then? You should be retired!
Me: Because, I just had to come to Korea so I could teach you, Alex! You are tricky. You need to be at least 70 to teach someone like Alex.
Kids: Nuh uh, teacher!
Alex: It's true! [Puts up two victory V's triumphantly]
Me: You tell 'em, tricky Dick.
Alex: Huh?
Me: Er, Richard Nixon.
Alex: Who is Lichaduh Nixon?
Me: ..... some dead guy. Go to page 97.
- K
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