Eum-Yang I: The Whiteness

The next few entries will (finally) deal with what living here is actually like. (They will likely be text-heavy and image-light as well and for that I’m sorry). Since more and more people from my peer group back home are looking into teaching in Korea (3 cheers for a BA!) and asking me about such, I thought it prudent to give an honest and open (if not overly in-depth) account of it here on the blog.

**Disclaimer:** These entries are an exposé on Korean culture as seen through the eyes of myself and myself only. I am usually considered an open-minded person with a fairly objective way of viewing the world and I love meeting, exploring, and interacting with new cultures. Hell, I even acquired a degree in “cultural studies” – whatever that means. That being said, however, certain aspects about my commentary on life here may strike you as extremely offensive if you are Korean (and possibly even if you’re not); for that I truly apologise. One thing I have noticed in my varied travels on this planet is that it is extremely easy to criticise another person’s way of life but 100% impossible to detract your own cultural upbringing from said judgements. The more I travel, the more I realise this truism and the more I am made aware of massive flaws and hypocrisies inherent in my own lifestyle and familiar cultural system. There is no perfect way of leading a human life; we’re all just apes doing regular everyday ape stuff down here – we just happen to wear clothes and talk about it a little more than our ancestral friends. One day, long after we have reached carrying capacity and the wars over usable energy, fresh water, and the last shady spot on the planet have whittled our numbers down to somewhere much closer to sustainable, we’ll all meet in a big auditorium. That day, we will have an open mic night with a representative from each remaining culture on Earth performing and we’ll have a gay ol’ time making jokes about how nutso we all are. What follows is my submission to the World Forum on Post-Apocalyptic Comedy Jams for the Korean entry.

Note – Here’s a general piece of life advice: whenever someone says “I don’t mean to be offensive, but...” it is likely that the next words out of their mouth will be extremely offensive. In their minds, it’s usually OK because they’re aware of this fact. Is it really OK? In my opinion, offensiveness is in the ear of the beholder. Enough pre-apologising. Without further ado, “I don’t mean to be offensive but...”

As I mentioned in passing near the end of a previous post, one thing that keeps striking me about Korea is how much the culture and lifestyle in general truly reflect the Taoist-rooted eum-yang symbol emblazoned on the nation’s flag – that is, the constant interplay between the positive and negative aspects of pretty much everything in life. This is a really cool ancient concept in which you can spend a lot of time losing yourself and your mental energies, as I have been doing recently. (Indeed, if I was forced – at gunpoint – to choose an organised religion on this planet, I would definitely pick an Eastern one).

Perhaps it’s just my perspective of late, but nearly everything I encounter here seems to have both awesome and awful at its very core. Things are simultaneously very kind and very cruel; accepting of difference and extremely racist; cutting edge yet deeply traditional. It’s hard for me to explain this abstract concept, so maybe it’s best if I begin with an example:

Being White in Korea

The Pros (Yang)
Being white in Korea is pretty damn sweet. You’re bigger and stronger than most of the other people you see on the street. (This is true even if you’re a white female here). Little kids smile and wave at you wherever you go (since, I’ve come to realise, your image is synonymous with “teacher” in their minds – a comprehensively well-respected and revered position in this country). People from smaller towns are interested in and intrigued by your very existence, and at least once a month you will have someone come up to you on the street just to smile at you and practice their English. They will ask you where you are from and will take a genuine interest in your life whilst regaling you of that week and a half they spent in Vancouver and how much they loved it. (Note – I have only spent around a day or so in that fair city and it is admittedly pretty nice). Since English is the language of business, urban development, and indeed the future in general in Korea, many people see your round eyes as implications that you are a birth-lucky, intelligent, and trustworthy individual upon first glance. Forget the fact that there is far less crime here than pretty much any Western nation – if you’re white you’re usually prejudged as a pretty friendly, safe, and generally cool person – which is alright by me. It’s easy to make mad money as an English tutor (or so I’m told as I am yet to see any windfall from this fact), and non-prostitute women will fawn over you to no end because of your perceived resemblance to some celebrity or another (my most recent likeness being Josh Hartnett). Finally, if you break any of the numerous fairly strict cultural rules and mores that are extant here (and trust me you will break plenty), you are usually exempt from the verbal wrath and social stigmatisation that would normally go along with it because, well, you’re white. It’s clear you don’t know what’s going on and that you’re from a different culture. (I wonder, however, if this forgiving attitude applies to more genetically similar people of Japanese or Chinese descent). Yes, being white in Korea certainly has its advantages.

On the other hand... (Eum)
Despite this near fetishisation of most things white, there are unarguable disadvantages to being a “waygook” (foreigner) in Korea as well. As a result of the undue attention afforded many white men by Korean women, my ex-pat peer group is also faced with some degree of hostility both subtle and overt by some young Korean men. Even when this grudge is held quietly, it is extremely common to find yourself being stared and sometimes laughed at nearly everywhere you go by Koreans of all ages – a feeling that definitely begins to get on your nerves after a while. It is also true that Korean men do indeed make attempts to look at your penis whilst relieving yourself in public urinals. I had heard (but disbelieved) this to be the case before I came here, and I can assure you it is all too real. Common, in fact. I would say it’s about once a week or so that I find myself bumping elbows with some dude who is overtly and shamelessly leering at my genitals while I try to pee.

If this naked awkwardness was not uncomfortable enough, I have also found myself the victim of more overt racist acts while less-than-fully-clothed. One day about a month ago I had just finishing working out at the YMCA and was still naked as I towelled off outside of the shower. (Don’t worry, this story doesn’t take as unpleasant a turn as you might fear). Three Korean guys came into the room and abruptly stopped talking to each other when they saw me. They then started making angry faces and speaking in more severe tones while still looking at me – clearly talking to each other how much they disliked the fact that I was there. Giving me a wide berth as I got changed, they then snickered something to each other and left the area in which I was standing. The last I saw of them they were heading toward the entrance to the room. Once I had finished up and was ready to leave, I went to the entrance of the locker room myself to get my shoes on. (In Korea, you have to take your shoes off at the entrance to most establishments and a gym locker room is no exception). I was quite unhappy to find that my leather shoes each had a massive puddle of water inside of them. There were no other splashes of water anywhere around the shoes save for a few errant drops in between them. This may well have been the result an unintentional spill by some careless person. However, the marksmanship on my shoes was dead accurate and it was only me and the other 3 clearly-unhappy-at-my-presence-there dudes who were anywhere near them. Taking both of these facts into account, I unfortunately feel as though my soggy kicks were most likely the result of intentional malice on their part. (They were nowhere to be seen after the fact). Whether they did this because I was white, large, English-speaking, naked, or some combination thereof I will never know. It did suck to be actively discriminated against solely on the basis of my race for the first time in my life, though.

Finally, there are also some people here who are akin to the “they took our jobs” brand of misguided racists one can find back in parts of the U.S. and Canada. While at my favourite local bar not too long ago, some random Korean man asked in broken English if he and his wasted friend could join us (again not all that uncommon or usually all that negative of an experience here). We gladly said yes and were making some congenial if awkwardly broken conversation until things went awry. I noticed his hat said “Montreal” across it and I enthusiastically asked him if he had been to my fair city. He answered that he had actually spent 2 years of grad school at McGill earning a degree in engineering of some kind. That was all well and good and I felt a certain affinity for him for a short time. Then, for no particular reason, he (with the assistance of a few bottles of soju) began telling me that I did not belong there. I was, he said, solely there for a short amount of time to extract only what I wanted from the country (money) with no regard for the people or culture there. He insinuated that my life as an English teacher here was solely self-serving and that I was insulting Koreans by treating their country as my own free personal job bank. This is a vaguely truthful if extremely skewed way of looking at things, and I would have normally forgiven such obtuse and unfair judgements about my motives coming from someone as drunk as he was. However, I was none-too-sober myself and felt that the hypocrisy evident in his accusation was just too much to bear. Excuse me sir, but how is what I am doing any different than what you did? Did you not venture to my country for a short time just to earn yourself a degree and then immediately return to Korea to use it with little regard for the people or culture of Québec or Canada? His English was admittedly better than my Korean, but it was still none-too-good on any objective scale and he also didn’t speak a lick of French. Sure, the capital I am earning here is financial capital, but the degree he earned at my alma mater increased his personal human capital and is no less valuable. In my eyes, our respective stints as ex-pats are on precisely equal terms and I still maintain that there is absolutely nothing amoral about either type of journey.

Perhaps I have made too much of these two isolated incidents to be painting a portrait of life as a waygook here as one that is fraught with racism. Indeed, I would have to say that the pros of being white in Korea almost definitely outweigh the cons in the long run. As I said, though, this aspect of life here on the other side of the world is just one of many which can be simultaneously both splendid and awful depending on your viewpoint. I will make an effort to continue my next few posts in a similar vein to flush out this elusive point more completely. Until then, thanks for visiting.

Nippon II - Kyoto & Osaka

Saying goodbye to Tokyo, Mike and I promptly fell asleep for the 3-or-so-hour train ride to Kyoto. I tried in vain to stay awake to watch the exotic countryside go by, but I was just too beat from the pre-dawn bird attack to do so. Also, the fact that the magnetic train was zooming at over 300km/hr made any decent sight out of the window too fleeting to be all that memorable anyway. One thing is for sure – if you’re 6-foot tall and weigh 200 pounds, you’re not going to have the most comfortable ride on public transit in Japan. (This reality sadly goes for Korea as well and, I fear, likely most of Asia).

Upon arriving in Kyoto, our first order of business was to locate some form of accommodation for that evening seeing as how our search on Couchsurfing had proven fruitless. Apparently Kyoto is one of those unsung tourist havens like Interlaken in Switzerland or (so I’m told) Koh Phangan in Thailand. As soon as you start doing even the slightest bit of research for a trip to the country or talk to others who have done it, Kyoto is one of those places that keeps popping up. You end up hearing that you just have to go there or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life and eventually end up hanging yourself in your garage because of the missed opportunity (or whatever the threat of the day is). Apparently the city is the home of some of the last authentic working Geishas in the country, served as the nation’s capital for a while, and is considered the birthplace of Japanese culture as it exists in its modern lexical incantation. As a result of this awesomeness and the fact that we were there for peak tourist season, it is understandable that we could not find any CS hosts. Instead, we went to the tourist bureau at the train station and asked what our options were for cheap accommodations.

With a bit a patience and a tonne of luck, we were able to snag a ballin’ hotel conveniently located in the Gion area of the city for around 8000 yen a night for the room (or around 45 Canadian bucks each). The accommodations were authentically Japanese, complete with sleeping mats instead of beds, sliding reed doors, courtesy yukatas, and those hilarious novelty toilets you’ve heard so much about. We really could not have asked for a better deal and we made good use of the water heater in the room for both our complimentary green tea and the copious amounts of sake we took back to our room. To ensure some true cultural fusion was attained, we also felt obliged to consume a bottle of good Scotch (surprisingly cheap!) and a few cigars over the course of our 3 nights there. Ah yes, vacation indeed.


Despite all the hype and the fact that the city actually is really awesome, I felt a little nonplussed by Kyoto overall. It is certainly a gorgeous place and is both culturally and aesthetically humbling. As my 2 month hitchhike through Europe taught me, however, too much of an amazing thing can sometimes leave you with a lack of appreciation for it. In retrospect the city is an absolute jaw-dropper complete with shrines, temples, and graveyards I thought only existed in idealised representations of Japan in Western cinema and art. However, a few days’ worth of touristic stumbling in the most oppressive humidity I have yet encountered in my life left me very sweaty and a little blazé about the whole thing. At least we had a great hotel at which we could rest when the heat got too much for us. (And yes, I can hear my tropical friends out there laughing at me as you read this; I’m well aware that I ain’t seen nothing yet if I call this hot).

One awesome experience Kyoto warranted was a unique and bewildering spectacle that can only be described as an elaborately ritualistic log-burning ceremony that ended in a parade. (Trust me, this doesn’t get any clearer with further explanation). One evening Mike and I accidentally stumbled upon a large gathering of traditionally-clad men of various ages. They were all milling around in semi-organised fashion near the centre of a large shrine/stage. Preparations were slow and plentiful, and before things really started to go down in earnest we had no idea what kind of spectacle we were about to witness (our bets were on some form of martial arts display). Eventually the event began when a very large bundle of reeds about 3 feet in diameter and about 12 feet long was lit at one end like a giant stogie. This burning reed-log was held on the collective shoulders of about 5 dudes chanting loudly in unison as they made their way out of the shrine and onto the streets of Kyoto. Behind this group were the rest of the 100-odd uniformed men – all smiling and chanting along with the log-bearers. Following them was a gaggle of onlookers and tourists who had gathered to join in the excitement. Bringing up the rear was a team of about 5 firemen complete with Ghostbusters-esque uniforms and water-throwing backpacks. They were charged with dousing any chunks of flaming material that happened to fall off the log and land on the street (as plenty did). Mike and I peeled off the main procession as it entered the busier part of the city feeling awed and respectful that such a strong cultural event still takes place in the modern day. Truly, save for Egon and Venkman’s presence, this whole thing could just as easily have been going down in 1300 AD and not one bit of it would have looked any different. Safe to say this whole ceremony was as intriguing as it was confusing. I will always hold the memory of the evening dear, even though I have resigned myself to never finding out the true significance – or even name – of the whole affair. Any ideas?

Comprehensively I would liken the laid-back cultural appeal and even much of the foliage in Kyoto to that of the West Coast of Canada (sans the marijuana, of course). This similarity was very surprising to me and although the city was spectacular in its own right, I think I was craving a little bit more of the robot-fuelled high-tech Japan that Tokyo had shown me. Indeed, I was itching to experience Osaka’s promise of a return to such by the end of my third day in Kyoto.

Early in the morning on the last day, Mike and I got our asses out of bed and booked a hotel for our one and only night in Osaka from the lobby of the Kyoto hotel. The two cities are quite proximate to each other so it was only around a half-hour’s train ride to get into the bustling centre of the new city. Once there, we were astounded once again by the bright lights and the flashy, high-paced atmosphere of large urban Japan.

Checking into our affordable and otherwise non-descript hotel in Northern Osaka, Mike and I wandered around the district a bit. We absent-mindedly took in the area whilst checking out the flashy local arcades and other various oddities. For lunch we dined on some excellent takoyaki, or delicious little octopus-filled batter balls that are apparently a specialty dish in Osaka. The honour and pride of Japanese culture again shining through, the men making these delectable little morsels were bona-fide professionals who have clearly dedicated their lives to ensuring the looks on their customers’ faces were as blissful as Mike’s and mine were as we enjoyed our heavenly meal.

In the hours that followed, we began to steel ourselves for what was to be the main purpose of our trip to Osaka: fugu. After some more sightseeing and aimless wandering, we took the metro down to the main boardwalk area of the city on a recommendation from countless guidebooks and our hotel concierge. We were looking for a famous fugu restaurant by the name of Zuboraya, purportedly marked by the giant pufferfish model hanging from its exterior. They weren’t lying.


As we went inside Mike and I each ordered the 3-course fugu set along with some delicious Japanese beer (the highly-exported Asahi which beats the pants off of any Korean brew and indeed most North American ones). The food finally came after much anticipation and excitement. After all, this meal could very well have been our last (à la that Simpsons episode).

The sashimi was good, but it wasn’t the best fish I’ve ever eaten. If it wasn’t for the vague (possibly placebo-induced) feeling of numbness around the edges of my lips and the knowledge that I could have died if the chef behind the counter was having an off day, I would say it really wasn’t worth all the hubbub. The meal was really good, though, and I’m definitely glad I did it since that’s one more thing I can cross off the ‘ol life list.

Comprehensively, if you’re looking for good food the entire nation is truly a gastronomic paradise. If you can get over some of the stranger snack foods sold in deps like spaghetti sandwiches with an indiscernible white sauce on them, most everything edible sold in Japan is 100% terrific. While reading menus was a bit of a challenge, practically every restaurant we entered on a random whim proved absolutely exquisite. If ever in doubt, we could always hop into a ramen joint that served noodles I will be dreaming about for years to come (and no, this dish is nowhere even close to the store-bought Styrofoam cups of crap you crétins are currently thinking about). Or, if we were feeling extra hungry, there were plenty of kaiten-zushi places around that were cheap, easy, delicious, and about 400 times better on every possible scale than their kitschy counterparts in the West. If worst came to worst, though, there was always a vending machine not far off. (Lonely Planet informs me that the country boasts a shocking 15,000,000 plus of them). If I ever felt home sick for a bit of my home culture, I would only have to look at one of these machines to see Tommy Lee Jones’ bright and chipper face leering back at me. Hilariously, he is considered to be the “Boss” of vending machine coffee in Japan, or at least that’s what I gathered from his ubiquitous image. (yeah, I’m still not sure of what the deal is there).

As for price, everyone always says that Japan is an extremely expensive country to visit. The truth, however, is that it is no pricier than traveling through much of Western Europe or even Canada. Coming from Korea and being paid in the inferior Won, some of the prices I encountered were a little shocking at first. If you sniff around a little, though, you’ll find that you can secure an awesome hotel room for as little as $40 a night per person as we did in Kyoto, or stuff yourself stupid on world-class sushi and ramen for as little as $8 a go. Comprehensively, it is an entirely reasonably-priced destination for the Western pocketbook to handle and, in my opinion, is definitely worth it.

So what are my thoughts on the country post-trip? I’m still gonna go with fascinated awe. Delicious, respectful, extremely impressed fascinated awe. There are certainly some aspects of the Japanese lifestyle that I will never understand, but I’m entirely okay with that. Indeed, I’m sure nobody who’s not Japanese would ever understand even half of the things they do or the ways in which they do them. It seems, though, that this is precisely Japan’s appeal. Somehow the country offers the entire gamut of unique awesomeness to the interested traveller. From the blaring, ostentatious fervour of Shibuya Crossing to the serenity and natural beauty of Kyoto’s back alleys, this country has it all. I don’t know if I’ll ever get myself back here, but my single week in Japan will definitely stay with me for a lifetime. Arigato gozaimasu, Nippon.

Nippon I - Tokyo

First off, my extreme apologies for having taken so long to update this thing. Summer vacation and the monotony of a real job are taking their toll on both my creative juices and my energy/care to write anything down. I suppose the most logical place to jump back in, then, would be to explain exactly what I was doing over my week-long reprieve from whining 5-year-olds.

For some time now I have been longing to explore the mystery and extreme cultural uniqueness that is Japan. Why do they love robots so much? Is honour really that important to them? Just what is the deal with that super crazy porn they produce in droves? Fascinated awe is the best way I can phrase my outlook on the culture pre-trip, and I was extremely curious to see how much my zany expectations matched up to the real deal. Seeing as how it is the most proximate (non-life-threatening) nation to the one in which I currently reside, it was also a logical place to spend my vacation.

Mike and I booked our flights way back in April. We planned to fly into Tokyo and out of Osaka and, after a small logistical battle with our employer because of the recent porky pandemic, were airborne for our week’s adventure on July 23rd.

The first unexpected part of Japan was its greenery. This was not something I had anticipated, but looking out of the plane’s window on our final descent into Narita, I was taken aback by just how lush and vividly green the countryside was. Not only that, but the fact that there even was a non-skyscraper-ridden countryside was the first indication that at least some of my preconceptions would be shattered.

Upon landing in Tokyo, I was a little disappointed to see that the impending quarantine I had been warned would be imposed on me because of swine flu fear was not a big deal at all. While I had been expecting dudes in Ghostbuster-style biohazard suits spraying me down with some sort of chemical, the screening process was nothing more than a man with a sanitary facemask behind a desk passing out awareness flyers to everyone who walked passed him. Unlike Korea, it seems, the Japanese are aware of the hyper-inflated nature of the panic.

After clearing customs, we were soon on a train bound for central Tokyo and all of the bizarre insanity it would entail. Our first stop was the busiest train station in the world, Shinjuku station, where we were to meet up with our Couchsurfing host for the next few nights, Koichi. Koichi was a slight and devilishly cheeky young businessman who had been born and raised in central Tokyo. Simultaneously shy and extremely social, this man is perhaps one of the Queeniest gay men I have ever met and served as an excellent cultural guide for the area. His quirky personality was great and we definitely lucked out to have found someone willing to accommodate 2 big white dudes in a tiny Tokyo apartment for a few nights. Not only that, but the Shinjuku area is one of the most happening in all of Tokyo so our locale could not have been better, either. Suffice to say, our 4 nights spent in the largest city in the world were lively and ridiculous, with us coming back in from extended drinking binges long after the sun had risen.

View from Koichi's apartment - 9th floor, Shinjuku

Tokyo wasn’t all about the nightlife, though. Indeed, the many offerings of the city’s daily bustle were absolutely incredible. Among them, we went to a museum of “emerging technology and innovation" that housed ASIMO and all manner of other robots (the descriptions for which were often too technical for my puny non-Japanese brain to comprehend). In addition to this techie stuff and the tireless search for Godzilla-like monsters on the skyline, Mike and I also did some more casual exploration. 4 days of hard tourism didn’t allow us to even scratch the surface of the city, but we still managed to see some pretty cool stuff like the central imperial palace. We continued to wander around numerous shrines, temples, and parks in the city – each more beautiful and serene than the last. One of the aspects of Tokyo I found most amazing was that you could immerse yourself deep into the dense greenery of a park and hear nothing but insects and the stillness of nature. Here it was surprisingly easy to entirely forget that you were standing smack dab in the middle of the world’s largest city.

A small building on the grounds of the Imperial Palace

Contrary to this peacefulness, there was also the expected insanity of throbbing downtown Tokyo. In addition to the wacky metro system (don't get me started on how difficult this thing was to navigate), certain parts of the city were so jam-packed with humanity they make downtown Montréal look like the 'burbs. Shibuya crossing is reputedly one of the most heavily trafficked pedestrian intersections in the world; standing in the middle of it truly makes you marvel at just how insect-like we mostly-clothed apes can be. Take a gander at the insanity below and keep in mind that a crossing just as busy as this happens at every light – about once every 2 minutes.

You can see an aerial view of the intersection at this Wikipedia page and I encourage you to read the entry on scramble crossings as well if you can’t figure out what’s happening here or if you are into urban geography like me.

While bumming around, we also stumbled upon the world headquarters store of Sony International, an electronics paradise which left us weak in the knee at all the mouth-watering gadgets. For the sake of saying I did so and because they are of incredible quality, I bought a pair of over-the-head padded headphones for 4000 yen (about $40). They’re ballin’ but they still don’t hold a candle to the noise-cancelling $550 earbuds also on sale there.

For our last night in Tokyo, Koichi unfortunately had to head off to Kyoto for business so we were on our own for accommodation. After a bit of head-scratching, we decided it would appease both our wallets and our sense of adventure if we just slummed it and hunkered down in a park somewhere. Mike’s friend had supposedly done this some years back with no problems, so that was a good enough green light for us. Since we both had sleeping bags and it was a nice evening out we figured we’d give it a shot. After casually downing a few (street-legal) beers in a very pleasant park we found, we finally scoped out a sleeping spot in a secluded patch of trees near a fence around nightfall and were asleep by midnight.

Just before dawn a cacophony of unimaginable abruptness punctuated my slumber with alarming force. There was a squaking of crows so intense and immediate that I was sure they were fleeing the rampaging attack of some Mothra-type creature. Mike and I, alarmed at the intensity of the noise, quickly assembled our gear and stumbled our way out of the park. On the way out, I stopped to look at a map of the area and perfunctorily located the place we had slept. It turns out the fence we were sleeping next to was actually the entrance to a large bird sanctuary; the patch of grass which we had so delicately chosen to rest our heads was about 10 metres away from a whole bunch of chipper, vocal, dawn-loving creatures. Being bleary-eyed and groggy at the time, we did not register the full hilarity of what had happened to us until a few hours later.

Later that morning Mike and I made our way to Tokyo’s central station and booked our tickets for the Japan Rail (JR) high-speed train to Kyoto. We left that afternoon and were off for the second half of our already-eventful trip that will not soon be forgotten.

***

Seeing as how this entry is running on a little long and that I am already quite late in updating, I will stop here and leave the second half of my Japan vacation for my next post. Sorry again for how long it took me to get back to this but I promise you will at least have the complete story of my trip within a few weeks.

On an unrelated note, it has been a full 6 months since I first landed in Korea. (!) It is absolutely insane how fast the time has gone. For better or worse, this ride is halfway over.

Chien Chaud

I did it; I finally ate dog.

Now I know that, while reading this, many of you people who have the ability to get offended by things may retch or get irate or whatever it is you people do. For that I am sorry. All I can say is that if you truly think about the actual contents of about 90% of the shit you pump into your body on a daily basis, eating Fido really isn’t all that bad comparatively.

My canine gastronomic experience started when Mike and I travelled into the Myeong-Dong area of Seoul on Saturday. We had seen in Lonely Planet that there was a Bosintang restaurant in the area and we have both been dying (mainly of curiosity) to try it since we got here. In addition to Mr. Kim, many people have told me that it is supposed to yield ‘potency’ and ‘vitality’ for men, which is congruent with the fact that it is really only elderly males who still eat the dish in Korea. (For the record, I’m pretty sure these claims imply the soup is supposed make your penis work better but I think the jury is still out on the science behind such a declaration).

The legal status of eating dog in Korea is uncertain, or at least it is to me. I have heard many conflicting reports on the actual laws surrounding the practice and at the very least it seems like those who still sell it are not too keen on advertising themselves much in public. Safe to say, the establishment we finally located to serve us the meal was not the swankiest of dining halls. Indeed, to be fully honest, I was a little bit nervous at first. The restaurant had a grungy exterior with a shady side-alley entrance that only had the 봇힌탕 (Bosintang) sign written in a small font above the door. If you weren’t looking for it you would never have found it, which I’m pretty sure is the point.

Just outside the restaurant Mike and I almost got cold feet but we eventually steeled ourselves and manned-up to the task. Inside, the restaurant was small and dingy, although the staff was quick and friendly which made us feel a little better about the whole experience. (Note: if some Igor-like creature had limped up to take our order I probably would have bolted out of there real fast). The stark, crucifix-adorned walls made me feel all-the-more ill at ease but my anxiety soon turned into excitement as the meal was served.

Bubbling hot and served in a typical Korean hotpot, here is the Bosintang in all its tender orange glory.

It wasn’t half bad, but I don’t think I’ll be waking up in the middle of the night jonesing for my next fix anytime soon. The meat was tender and extremely fatty. It had the texture of stewed beef brisket and a taste similar to such but with a slight smoky flavour that bore a vague resemblance to lamb. I’d have it again, but mostly for the novelty of introducing someone else to it. (On that note, there’s a big bowl of dog to be had for any of you more adventurous eaters who care to visit me over here). The soup itself was great but my cuts of meat were a little too fatty for me to go over the moon for it. Mike’s bowl was a little leaner, though, so perhaps it was just luck of the draw. (or should I say pick of the litter?)

Aside from just the taste, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about consuming it ethically. As someone who unabashedly and unrepentantly eats veal, non-free range chicken, and the occasional meal at a big-name fast food chain or two, I’m aware that I’m probably being extremely hypocritical in my sentiment here. However, I still felt a little bad thinking about the abuse the poor animal possibly had to endure before his fatty, rubbery muscle met its final end by fuelling my existence for a few hours. Just like the fuzzy legal status of selling the meat, I am still unclear whether the horrific traditional ‘tenderisation’ process of dog meat still goes down on modern dog farms. Apparently, they used to beat the living shit out of the dog while it was still alive to tenderise the meat, but I have heard that this barbaric practice has long since stopped being practiced. Since I cannot find any conclusive evidence either way, though, I cannot be entirely sure Rex didn’t take a cruel thrashing before landing on my chopsticks, but I sure hope he didn’t. Again, if this situation seems horrible and cruel to anyone, then put down your condescending finger for a second and do a little bit of research. Before judging me or a 5000 year old cultural culinary tradition, it is important to find out the skinny on all the twisted processes your meat goes through before it gets onto your plate. You might be unpleasantly surprised.

All told, it was definitely a novel eating experience. For better or worse the practice of eating well-prepared dog meat is alive and well in this country and I can safely say that this is the first meal I’ve ever enjoyed that left my stomach growling only after I’d finished eating. (Sorry, but the puns were impossible to resist).

Comments of both outrage and awed reverance are encouraged.

Mr. Kim

Not too long ago, the father of one of my kindergarten students wrote a very kind response to me in one of my weekly progress reports that I deliver for his daughter. He extended a dinner invitation to me and insisted he repay the kindness I had been showing his daughter by taking me out for a meal. It is impolite to refuse, so I said yes and within a few days we had made a plan for him to pick me up from work to go out for dinner.

My first indication that he is very wealthy came when I noticed his spanking new Land Rover roll up outside LCI. It’s an impressive vehicle in any situation, but when you consider that absolutely everyone here drives a domestic car (either a Hyundai, Kia, Samsung, or the like), then the fact the he has a luxury foreign import is all-the-more remarkable. Despite him not knowing the exact English word for it, I think from his description of it that his job is a land developer of sorts. Considering how fast this country is still urbanising and expanding, it’s no surprise. (Note – most of my other students’ wealthy parents are also in residential development or construction in some capacity).

So I hop onto the sensual new leather seats and he asks me if I like sushi. Hell yes. We end up an extremely fancy restaurant in a part of town I had never visited before and my god did we feast! First off, this is the kind of joint where you get seated in a separate room with its own sliding door so that you and your presumably gigantic wallet can dine in complete privacy. Mr. Kim proceeds to tell me that he enjoys large meals and then on comes the onslaught of decadent, extremely high-end sushi that left me just short of orgasm by the end of the meal. He refuses to take any of my money for repayment of the meal, but I am sure that my portion alone was at least 80,000 won.

As for conversation, Mr. Kim’s English is pretty decent, especially considering he has never actually visited an English-speaking nation. (He learned his English while at University in Seoul). He did say, though, that he very much wants to visit Canada and specifically not America which seems to be the inverse of most of the other Koreans I’ve met. (Despite this fact, Mr. Kim claims that most of his countrymen have the same affinity for Canada as he does for reasons that he never fully explained). He said that the main reason he wanted to take me out was to help a foreigner adjust to life in a new land. He himself lived in China studying Chinese literature for a year so he understands the stresses and loneliness associated with living in a foreign culture. Regardless of his reasons, I was certainly glad to have such a courteous (and indeed straight ballin’) host to show me the finer points of my otherwise mundane new town.

A few weeks later, Mr. Kim took my friend Mike and I out for dinner again, this time to a more rural but no less fancy high-end restaurant – this time with traditional Korean fare. Again he refused to take our payment and again he piled on the decadence with the quality of the meal. He has promised to introduce us to all kinds of amazing Korean dishes over the course of the next year including an all-you-can-eat crab festival and a taste of ‘bosintang’ – a special dog-meat soup that both Mike and I have been dying to try. Needless to say, we are both extremely excited. (Note: I debated whether to say ‘howling with excitement’ here or make some other dog-meat pun but I figured I’d refrain from unleashing my entirely offensive side for the more sensitive readers out there).

Despite all this awesomeness, there are still some disconcerting things about the culture here that, as always, come across as entirely normal until you take a second to double-think them. When asked what his wife does for a living, Mr. Kim replied “oh, you know women... mostly cleaning up the house. (laughs). No seriously though, she enjoys baking and things like that. (serious face)” Upon slightly further prompting of whether his wife has ever had a job, he replied a little more sternly that “of course she had a job before marriage but now she is a mother” with an almost inquisitive tone that implied that it would be strange for the situation to be any different. This 1950’s-esque separate spheres mentality is a little jarring when witnessed firsthand, but the odd nonchalance with which it’s presented makes you simply accept it as natural in an eerily mind-numbing manner.

The blatant flaunting of material wealth here is another thing that I am not used to, although perhaps this lack of familiarity is just because I’m out of touch with the bourgeoisie back home as well. As we were driving back to my house, I pointed at a high-end department store called Shinshegae and asked if Mr. Kim ever shopped there. He shook his head slightly and said “no, that place is very expensive and I do not have much money.” Then he looked at us mischievously and cocked his head back in an aggressively loud belly laugh as he put the pedal to the floor of his $70,000 automobile. Mike and I laughed heartily as well at the unabashed pride the man takes in his paycheque. Such joking around about one’s own (extreme) wealth was hilarious to us, but I feel as though back home it would be somewhat of a faux-pas for most people, especially when parties of two separate income-brackets are conversing.

All in all it was a great time and I am quite happy I took him up on his offer. If nothing else, I now have a new friend on this planet and it’s really funny to think of this distinguished man and his fancy car when I look at his daughter picking her nose or pulling her dress up over her 5-year old head each morning.

Oops, no pics again. My B. I’ll try next time.

Youth + Sugar = Apeshit

It was my birthday on May 27. This usually isn’t a big deal to me, but my gracious employers here in Korea decided it was indeed a noteworthy event. They gave me a decadent, expensive cheesecake and a $40 gift certificate to a fancy department store. (Good luck finding that kind of treatment from any employer back home). To add to this luxury, my kindergarten students also got wind of my special day somehow (likely from the ‘birthdays’ list on the classroom wall). Indeed, it surprised me when one of my students beamed a smile at me the first thing on the Monday morning and said “Blake Teacher! 2 more sleeps you birthday!” (One tends to forget, post-puberty, that birthdays are the coolest thing ever when you’re a little kid). Perceptive kids. Anyway, on the day in question I was presented with a nicely wrapped t-shirt and another super-awesome cake as a collective gift from the class’ parents. (Sadly, the shirt is a double XL and way too big for me... an understandable mistake given the fact that my body is certainly “extra large” in comparison to your average adult here).


I accepted the gifts with gratitude and happily posed for the requisite photo-op that is standard with every over-the-top birthday celebration here. Then I made a big mistake: I shared the cake with my class. HOT DAMN is sugar ever an energy booster for little kids! I mean, it was nice to be able to just sit back and enjoy the show for a while but holy hell... they could not have been more wired if I’d given them a bowl full of pure Peruvian cocaine. Please enjoy just 1 of the 40 minutes of zaniness that ensued post-cake below. There is minimal commentary in this video but it’s pretty self-explanatory. Little kids... going nuts. Enjoy.

Snippets of the Insane

My apologies for not having posted in a while. As I had somewhat anticipated, the daily routine of work and marking has quickly lost its novelty and my life here has become entirely naturalised. As such, I have not taken my camera out and about too often because not much seems all that crazy and special anymore. I feel kind of bad about posting long chunks of text without any visual reprieve so I promise I will make more of an effort to get some photos for future posts. In lieu of many pics today, then, I will just list a few easily-digestible non-sequiturial anecdotes that show just how zany life can get here in an eerily normal way.

1) We had to pinky-swear a police officer that we would be quiet
A few weeks back it was the birthday of one of my co-workers. She threw a party in her apartment which is a place very similar to my old apartment (the 3-story walk-up), only with a lot less stink. The tiny room soon became packed with about 20 waygus all drinking and generally making merry. We were just leaving for the bar around midnight when the cops showed up. (As is entirely logical, there is no legal closing time for licensed establishments here and bars in this country only close when there is nobody left to serve). The cops looked a little intimated to see so many large, well-dressed drunk whiteys but they made their best attempt to tell us to be quiet nonetheless (a finger to the lips is the international sign for ‘sush’). We nodded our acknowledgement and did our best body language for “we’re on our way out,” which the cops seemed to somewhat understand. My friend Matt and I were the first to get outside and were awkwardly waiting around for the rest of the crew in front of the building with the cops still standing there waiting for us. The one came up to Matt and said “I speakeee English; you quiet or jail.” Matt was like “OK sure no problem; WE LEAVE NOW, ” which the officer seemed to accept as a reasonable substitute for incarceration if we would be true to our word. He nodded and said “OK.” Then, just to throw some sand in our eyes, he held his fist up to Matt, pinky erect, and said “promise.” Matt chuckled and pinky-swore the cop, who solidified the deal by touching his thumb to Matt’s. Yessir, apparently the pinky-swear is an official, legally binding agreement here.
(N.B. I’m sure that’s not true but it sure was weird to pinky-swear a uniformed officer).

2) I ate chicken anuses – plenty of them
Street meat is one delectable treat that is ubiquitous around Asia but sadly lacking in Western culture. It’s great to be able to go up to a shack that has delicious smells wafting from it and consume some fantastic variant of mystery meat (usually on a stick) for less than a buck. Not long ago my friend Mike and I decided we’d try out something new – a bunch of identical pieces of a certain unidentifiable chicken part skewered onto a stick. The taste was a unique but not offensive brand of dark meat chicken and the texture was extremely rubbery and tough. I had no idea what part of the animal we were eating but something in the back of my head kept saying “you’ve seen this before and it’s hilarious.” After going home and re-watching the Hong Kong episode of my beloved travel show No Reservations it finally dawned on me where I’d seen this meat before. It is indeed chicken butt and is indeed a specialty dish here in Korea and around most of Southern Asia. I did not have my camera with me so I robbed this picture from the internet somewhere, but this is pretty much what a bunch of chicken anuses on a stick look like. I am a very adventurous eater and was not fazed in the least by having consumed this product, but many of the people to whom I relate this story retch or squirm or swear or some combination thereof. I must admit, it is a little weird when you can actually see into the rectum hole you are about to ingest. Dark meat indeed.

3) The Korean education system thinks it’s reasonable to try and explain biological evolution a 5-year-old child
A little over a month ago my kindergarten class got to go on every child’s favourite school-time adventure: a field trip! What’s even better is that it was an entire science museum exhibit dedicated to the life’s work of your favourite scientist and mine, Charlie Darwin. This is all well and good – evolution can never be taught too young lest crazy religious zealots try to hammer logic and rational though out of an impressionable young brain. Just how much new insight on humanity these kids took away from the exhibit, though, is debatable. This is especially true considering that some of the signs around the museum were offering the image seen here as a visual clarification of the process. I’m still not too certain why our species didn’t keep those dagger-hands when we had them (see stage 3). I am sure that we could at least have turned them into some sort of super cool mate-luring spandrel. Regardless of the educational value of the trip, one point that I again took away from this venture was that the Koreans really value a high-quality education from a very young age. Again, the debate over a lost childhood and overworking your 5-year-old ensues, but it is an admirable undertaking at the very least. If nothing else, the sojurn was a great day for me to get my own personal laughs out of the situation. Everybody repeat after me: “allopatric speciation!” Most children remain silent, blinking and confused, while the brave ones attempt it: “alo..prreee...sprrr(mumble)..."
(fade to silence).

4) This country is so sheltered from certain kinds of Western decadence that I often encounter hilariously inappropriate unwitting mistakes
Walking into class the other day I noticed one of my grade 3 students was wearing a polo shirt with the words “pleasant garden” emblazoned across the back. Nothing out of the ordinary here: there are all manner of nonsensical but innocuous sayings on t-shirts here that are always a little amusing if not overtly confusing. What made this shirt particularly hilarious was that directly beneath these words was a large reproduction of the image seen here. The craziest thing about the kid wearing this to school was not that he didn’t understand what it meant (he surely didn’t), but that his parents were so clueless that they purchased it for him in the first place. To top it all off, even the English-speaking, Western-familiar Korean staff at my school did not understand the faux-pas that had been made. It’s true that Korea is like 100% free of drugs, but it surprised me just how deeply this lack of exposure to the world of non-alcoholic intoxication permeates the culture. I mean, c’mon; even the crustiest, most conservative elderly folk back home know what a freakin’ pot leaf looks like.

A related incident involved me receiving a “thank you” card 2 weeks ago on what is called “Teacher’s Day” in Korea. (It seems to be another Hallmark type deal-y for which you’re supposed to purchase flowers and cards). I received all manner of funny sayings and odd translations of appreciation over the course of the day, but none was stranger than a specific store-bought one that read: “Always for You: I want to spend some time with you just the two of us.” I’m pretty sure no grade 2 teacher back home ever received a card from their students that said that. Again the level of inappropriateness here is staggering but I just find it so funny that simple mistakes like this are made completely unknowingly by both students and their parents alike.

It would seem as though knife-handed early hominids, pinky-swearing cops, anal cavities on sticks, and sexually suggestive teacher’s day cards are all just par for the course here. Comprehensively I think the weirdest thing about these varied crazy encounters is that they all seem so... well, normal. After only a few weeks here you truly don’t even bat an eye anymore when you see things like army guys walking hand-in-hand down the street or heterosexual couples dressed 100% exactly the same (right down to their ankle-bands). As my Asiaphilic friend Christian succinctly puts it: “white people in Korea are just like ghosts floating through the future.”

And we’re laughing the whole time.

Teaching II – Elementary

Boring alert: very few pictures!

Contrary to the hype, the rest of my non-kinder day is really not all that exciting. The feeling of the squeezies is replaced by a genuine sense of accomplishment in seeing your kids’ progress and the intermittent lulls in class attention and energy are slightly less excruciating. Otherwise, I am in the same classroom all day with the same tiny chairs and the same weather, season, and number-related vocabulary words adorning my walls.

I have to say that there is a lot of honour and pride that goes along with the job. There are few better feelings in the world than watching the eyes of a young one light up at having received an answer to a burning question or in hearing an enthused “really?! Cool!” when they encounter some nifty new fact about the world around them. Indeed, imparting knowledge on the younger generation is an exciting and empowering experience I had honestly not anticipated. (Strange realisation – I am no longer part of the youngest generation on this planet). The amount of influence you have over these kids is truly something. Indeed, the pressure is high and it’s very important that you’re on top of your game and man enough to handle real-life sit’ations every minute of the day lest you lead these kids astray or warp their fragile young minds.

To be sure, teaching non-kindergarten youngsters is not without its share of annoyances. Some kids don’t care at all about their studies because this isn’t real school to them and their parents are just making them go. I have still not figured out the specific system but I believe that the hogwan is akin to what an after-school music or art class would be back home. That is, you can send your kid there for an hour or three after or between their real public school classes against their will. The kid gets additional learning (in this case in generic school subjects like writing and social studies) and your bank account gets smaller. I am teaching what is, in essence, an after-school program. It just also happens to be school. So while kids back home are playing soccer and karate and taking piano lessons after school, these kids are going to school #2. After school #2, though, they still have these more exciting extra-curriculars to attend as well. Mostly this jam-packed day means your average 1st grader usually goes to bed around 11 or 12 after a damn hard day’s work and gets up again at 7am to do it all over again. (See my earlier note about Asians taking over the world sometime soon).

Doing this job makes me realise that the Korean hogwan (or at least mine) really does trust an undergraduate degree from a Western institution as a true indicator of teaching ability. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t reflect on how important my job is to these kids or just how much of an impact my quality-of-teaching and energy level on any given day (or lack thereof) has on my children and the education they receive. This fact is an important one to keep in my head in order to keep my laziness and apathy in check but it can also make for some pretty exhausting evenings when I am tired and would otherwise want to just assign busy work or let the kids chat.

Sometimes I can get frustrated with the quality, style, or content of the material I have to teach. I am lucky enough not to have to design my own lesson plans, so at least there is less work to do on the prep side of things. The flip side of this pre-designed curriculum, though, is that I have to teach the exact page numbers and topics it says I have to teach on any given day. I have 3 different Social Studies classes a week and the texts for such are all über-American. While it’s nice for me to learn new things about the American constitution and how Mexicans are integrating into Colorado society, I feel that these kids would be better off learning about something with which they have more familiarity. Having a Canadian teach Koreans about the American Midwest is, well, strange at best.

All of the kids in my Social Studies classes are in either grade 1 or grade 2 and each of them is more or less completely fluent. The quality of their thought processes is on par with about a grade 4 or 5 back home and the striking thing is that this is their second language. I’m sure I’d be even more amazed at how smart they are if I could converse with them in their native tongue. My other 2 classes, though, are lower level kids around the same age who just started learning English last year. The respective pros and cons of these two types of class are thus: the lower levels are a breeze outside of the class because there is very little (or very simplistic) marking to be done. The in-class hours can be a tad tedious, though, because of the strain on both the kids and I to communicate with each other effectively across the language barrier. The more advanced students, however, are engaged and interactive in class, which makes the hour go by much faster. These classes each merit me a few hours of paper-marking each week, though, so I guess in the end it all evens out.

As I conclude this elongated, fairly dry account of my daily life here I realise that no matter where you are or what you are doing in this world, there will always be factors both good and bad upon which you can dwell to construct an opinion about your life. I suppose that this sentiment is quite fitting here in Korea – a country whose flag embodies just this sentiment with the eum-yang symbol as its central element.

I am sure that forever after I will look back on my life here with feelings of both frustration and admiration but I believe that it is this mixed sentiment that comprises a large and necessary part of all human experience. “Nothing is either good or bad but thinking makes it so” may well be right. I have both qualms and passions about certain aspects of my work and at the end of the day it both frightens me away from and seduces me towards a future career as a teacher in some capacity. No matter which way you slice my side of the job, though, I still think I’d still prefer to have had a carefree childhood like the one I did than to be up past 11 doing homework in a foreign language when I was still in grade 2. If you’re still reading this and you have anything even remotely more productive you should be doing, go do it now. With these super-brainy, super-studious, fluently English children entering the workforce in the next 15 years, you won’t have a job for long. Slacker.

Teaching I - Kindergarten

So just what is it like teaching English to a bunch of pint-sized, nose-mining little yard apes who may or may not understand any single word you say? In one sentiment: OK. (We’ll call this the mathematical mean). In two sentiments, the experience is simultaneously both extremely frustrating and extremely rewarding. Let me extrapolate.

I am sure that every ESL teaching experience (much like every non-ESL teaching experience) differs from the next in many ways. Unarguably, though, there are also bound to be many unanimous experiences shared across the board. I don’t know how this truism plays in to my own personal account, but just keep it in mind while you read. As usual, my friend Alan has made some astute and eloquently-stated observations on this subject as well should you desire a more thorough rendering of the topic than what is written here.

I work a standard 9-hour day (consisting of 8 teaching hours with an unpaid lunch break). As I have said, this is apparently a fairly long day for your average contract here in Korea but I am getting paid pretty well so it isn’t too bad. The days can definitely be tiring, especially considering you are both on your feet/moving around the entire time and that you have to be the sole centre of attention, focus, discipline, and exemplary behaviour for the classroom. Gone are the days of coming into class with a wooden jaw in the morning and laying low in the back corner with your head on your desk. Indeed, I definitely have a new-found respect for teachers of all stripes worldwide for the dedication, commitment, and professionalism necessary for the job. Considering, though, that I was unemployed for a good amount of time before coming over here and that I have no idea what an ‘easy’ ESL-teaching work experience is like, I really (really) can’t complain. Everything is relative.


Each morning I begin at 10 o’clock and teach a class of nine 5-year-olds until 12:30 and then again for an hour after lunch until 2:30. (They are technically called 6-year-olds here in Korea since the culture considers the 9 months spent in utero to be your first year of life. That is, you are 1 on the day you are born and count up from there). My kids have one 6-month term of learning English already under their belt, so the experience is not quite as aggravating as it could be. Still, though, their tiny adorable brains are still trying to figure out syntax and grammar rules in their own language, let alone their parentally-imposed second one. Many times, this results in even more absent-mindedness , crying, and confusion than a first-language kinder class would already merit – which is to say, a hell of a lot.

(I mention “parentally imposed” here because most of the parents do not actually speak English themselves. They simply want their kids to, as my employer’s motto implies, “learn English, learn the world.” Thus the parents usually have no real way to judge their children’s progress and are thrilled at every progressive vocab word their little one spouts out at home. Most of the time, this fact means that I don’t receive as many irate phone calls as I could by overzealous parents concerned about this or that. That’s good; one less thing).

This lack of full communication between my students and myself can sometimes have a silver lining, though. In an effort to keep myself sane, I will sometimes joke around with the kids or ask them questions that are clearly above their heads. For example, one of my young boys, Kevin, often wears white pants, Hawaiian shirts, and baby-blue slippers to class. I ask him if he is going to retire to Florida, what his yacht is like, how much the early bird special is at the dinner buffet, etc. He tends to look at me with a blank stare and then do an energetic dance which he kicks off with a loud “one, two, three four five!” before retaking his seat and continuing on as usual. It’s Lou Bega meets Morty Seinfeld and it’s absolutely hilarious.

Indeed, trying to communicate humour across cultures can definitely be difficult, but sometimes the attempt itself can be even more humorous than the joke you were trying to make in the first place. (I know I’ve already linked to this video but if you haven’t watched this whole clip please do so now; it’s the funniest 5 minutes of TV I’ve ever seen and I don’t even understand about 4.5 of them). Regardless of the comprehension of such, joking around with my kids in this way helps get me through my morning in one mental piece.

Every weekday morning brings with it the highest highs and the lowest lows. I have definitely created a new sweet spot in my heart for these adorable little monkeys and I finally understand the indescribable mixture of feelings that goes along with taking care of kids. It’s such a strange emotion to want to hug a kid until they burst because (s)he is being sooo adorable (my friend Mike calls this feeling ‘the squeezies’) but to simultaneously want to throttle him/her because she is being sooo difficult. “Love/Hate” doesn’t even begin to describe it.

If there’s one thing I have improved it’s my kindergarten tact. There are about a million things I will never understand that go on in a young child’s brain. Roughly 90% of the problems they come to you with, however, can be solved simply by reacting in a way they didn’t expect.

Mind-boggling kinder act #47401: picking incessantly at a tiny scratch on their hand until they draw blood. I would say that each and every one of my kids has done this at least once (and some do it multiple times daily). I usually catch them staring intently at their hand and tell them to stop picking their wound, but if I don’t catch it in time I will inevitably have them shoving their tiny hand in my face and saying “Teacher, owie!” with a tiny speck of blood barely visible on some spot or other. It is at this point that, rather than encourage the attention-seeking tears I see welling up in their eyes, I decide to go the other route. “Wow, what a great injury! I bet that hurts a lot! Good job for not letting it get to you! Now don’t pick it and it will go away.” Then I smile and tickle them a little. They are usually too confused and tickled to remember to cry so instead they laugh and, 9 times out of 10, forget what they came to me for in the first place and return to their seat grinning. (Note: this tactic also works for minor bumps and scrapes of all kinds and even the occasional fight).

You may have noticed that I said I tickle my kids frequently. While some of you may be reaching for the phone to call protective services and/or Korean immigration right now, I ensure you that physical contact with the children is very much encouraged here. Personally I feel this is a necessary and very positive thing when working with children. Encouraging pats on the backs or hugs of condolence can make a world of difference to a young child and my kids always want as much love as I can possibly afford to give them. This is a welcome reprieve from the cold, lawsuit-fearing ethos of early childhood education back home. Indeed, loving physical contact is a near-completely indispensible part of my job and I both give and receive more hugs each day now than I can possibly count. I also tend to pick the kids up, two at a time, and spin them around above my head every now and then when they are really good.

Yes they love this and no I am not kidding.

As for the curriculum, there really is a hell of a lot expected from these kids. In addition to the ‘big gym’ and ‘play gym’ periods typical at any school, there is also a good 2 hours of book learning to get through each day. (‘Play gym’ at my school is a small room that is equipped with a ballin’ jungle gym complete with a padded floor, slide, climbing mesh, and all the rest. Someone always cries there). The books range from math to phonics to vocabulary lessons. The lessons are fairly easy, but the pace is quick and there’s a lot of material to get through for a near-ADD 5-year-old. I am consistently shocked with the high expectations but more often than not the kids meet all of their lofty objectives and then some. This kind of success makes me realise just how lax the public school curriculum is back in Canada and why all of the world’s richest and most successful people will have epicanthic folds in 50 years.

All told I would have to say that kindergarten teaching takes up a hell of a lot of mental energy but that it is about worth it at the end of the day. It is definitely tough entering a full 5 hours of fast-paced academic teaching after playing daddy for 3 hours each morning, but I survive. It’s so nice to get the love and appreciation a kindergarten class offers you, be it in the form of the praise of happy parents or the smiling hugs of a little kid. It is just heart-melting to be walking down the hall outside of class and have one of my students spot me. His eyes will light up and as he makes a beeline for my leg, arms outstretched in an anticipatory hug screaming “Blake Teacher!!” and grabs onto me like I was his favourite thing on the planet. Sometimes, on a bad day, this sentiment is worth all the headaches in the world. Except, of course, when the kid has just peed himself. This happens as well.

Next up: the other 5 hours of my day.

A Vast Improvement

Last week I get a note on my desk at work saying that the administration wanted to talk to me about my apartment. Dubious as that sounded, it turned out to be good news; a new place had become available! Due to some confusing apartment shuffling of the staff members at our school for mundane reasons, I was offered to move into a much swankier building than the one in which I had been living. The only catch was that it was a little bit pricier per month for both the utilities and administrative fees than what I had been paying. (While the schools here cover your rent, all utilities and building ‘maintenance fees’ are your own responsibility). The total cost of my bills had been around 25 000 won per month but that would about double at my new place. I still have to get adjusted to the high cost of electricity here in Korea as I am used to my energy bills being extremely low. In fact, the monthly amount I am used to paying is among the lowest in the world considering that Montreal is the headquarters of the world’s largest hydroelectric producing company. In an effort to be a good human as well as save money, then, I am now taking much more conscious actions toward saving energy than I ever have before. (That is to say, my power bill last month shocked me considering how tiny my place was).

Wasteful energy practices, aside, then, 300 bucks more a year is definitely worth it to get out of that stanky-ass funhouse I was calling home.

The Charmant, as my new building is endearingly named, is a cross between a luxury high-rise and a Bentham-esque panopticon because of the way it is laid out. It is a large right-angle triangle with each apartment facing outward but overlooking a peaceful inner courtyard. There is also easy roof access which allows a gorgeous view of the town and a full-time snoozing security guard on alert in the front foyer for reasons yet to be determined considering how safe everything is here.

As for the apartment itself, it is not a studio like my last place was, but rather has a full 3 separate rooms including a full bathroom. I say “full” implying not that it has a tub as one would find in the decadent west, but rather that it has a shower that offers a hands-free, stick-to-the-wall humane cleaning experience. It’s on the 9th floor of the building and has an automatic motion-sensor light in the front hall which makes me feel like a robot is silently welcoming me home. (It kind of is). I’ve got a couch and a real-sized table and chair this time, as well as an extra bed in the front room in case I want to play host to passing couchsurfers.

The view from my bedroom window.

With respect to locale, I am still just a short jaunt away from my school. In fact, I only moved about 500m down the road from my old place. If you look at the satellite image of my old apartment in my post about such you can easily point out the triangle I call home not too far from my old pad. See it? It’s the triangle.

Perhaps the funniest and simultaneously most disconcerting thing about my new place is its fire escape. With little or no extant fire safety coding for the buildings here, none of the apartments in my building have balconies or fire escapes. Rather, there is simply a large, well-fastened eyelet screwed into the wall near the window with the words “simple descending life line” written above it.

No stairs.
No rope.
Just an eyelet.





I am yet to pick up a rope that reaches a full 9 stories but I suppose in a pinch my Ethernet cord will let me at least peer into my downstairs neighbours’ place shortly before my toasty demise.

Fire hazards aside, this place is frickin’ awesome. If my last place was quirky but totally liveable, this one is pure paradise.

The view from the roof 1 (Notice the beautiful cherry blossoms).

The view from the roof 2 (Notice the beautiful smog).

Sorry if you fell asleep this week. I had received a lot of requests about getting a rundown of my new place and it’s hard to make an apartment sound exciting if it doesn’t smell like sewage or have comic book wallpaper. I promise next time I will get into much less mundane matters. Cheers until then.