Getting Ready to Go

Packing, planning, and bracing oneself for a year’s trip is no easy feat. In addition to the usual problems (stuffing 100 pounds of shit into a 50 pound bag, packing for 4 different seasons, ensuring mother doesn’t freak out at the prospect of not seeing me for a year, etc.), Korea specifically had its own peculiarities to prepare for. They say to pack a tonne of deodorant because it is practically impossible to find here and if you do it will be preposterously expensive. Fair enough. But they also suggest packing your own prophylactic wrappers because of the texture, material, and size differences between the options shelved in the different countries. That may be, but have you ever considered just how difficult it is to pack a year’s supply of condoms? How many should I bring? Depending on my circumstances, luck, and mood, the number could range anywhere from a flat zero to upwards of 300. I decided to pack on the low end and play it by ear if I happen to run out.

(Note – before leaving, a disturbingly high number of friends and family members warned/advised/implored me not to return home the father of a young baby – half-Korean or otherwise. I am unsure where all these procreative concerns came from, but I promise all of you that I am a sane and competent individual with proper decision-making capabilities and an adult brain on my shoulders. Enough said).

Saying goodbye to friends was the next big hurdle. After finally getting rid of the lease obligations for my Montreal apartment (a nightmarish long story unto itself), I had to bid farewell to the people and city I love so dearly. I would have to say that I definitely enjoyed the going away parties thrown in my honour, but I surely did not enjoy having to admit that I will not see so many good friends for at least another year. Nearly every time I went out I had some friend or other insisting that dinner and at least two rounds of drinks were on them. Aside from packing on a few unwanted and definitely unearned pounds, this gluttonous existence made me think that perhaps I should leave town every weekend simply for the free parties.

Finally ripping myself free of my long-running love affair with the city of Montreal, I drove all my earthly belongings back to Ontario with dearest mumsie on February 28. Enjoying another hedonistic through stressful week, I finalised all my affairs in Dundas and saw off the last of my remaining good friends by March 5. I will miss you all very much, but at least I will have all the (mostly alcohol-tainted) nights to remember you by.

Finally finally finally, on March 7 I drove to the airport in Toronto with about 120 lbs of luggage in tow and left mumsie in tears at the departure gate. Clearing US customs in Toronto (please don’t get me started on the dubious parameters of US air jurisdiction and the wonders of their homeland security program), I boarded my 4-hour-late flight to Chicago where I had another 3 hours to wait for my 15-hour flight to Seoul. O’Hare was an American marvel that just shouted “U S A” from its every orifice and offered a very intriguing insight into the goings-on of the world’s 2nd busiest airport. (The answer to your question: Atlanta).

It was checking in for my 1am flight to Seoul at the Asiana counter that I encountered my first non-encouraging response to the question of why I was going to Korea. While friendly enough, the woman behind the counter, seemingly making small talk, suggested that my undertaking was just about the worst thing I could be doing for my prospective kids. She implied that by helping Asians learn English today, the next generation of Westerners will just face all that much more competition in an entirely globalised world about 25 years from now. Indeed, I was helping design the weapon that would destroy my race. I smiled meekly and perfunctorily said ‘that’s a good point,’ but in truth there is definitely something profound in those words. This statement, which I had mulled over in a tongue-in-cheek fashion with some friends before I left, was now being said point blank to me by an Asian service woman working for an Asian airline in the United States. I am not sure where or if there is any point to be made in all this, but it is food for thought nonetheless.

Anyway, I boarded my flight without any more problems and spent the next 15 hours of my life sitting in a chair in the sky. To be honest, the flight was not nearly as painful as I had imagined it would be. Asiana has absolutely stellar service, well-deserving its 2009 commendation as airline of the year. Everything from the delicious bibimbap in-flight meal to the service of the gorgeous, dutiful, pristinely-uniformed stewardesses (flight attendants if you’re a PC jackass) was top-notch. The majority of the 737 was filled with Asians, but right beside me was – you guessed it – another Canadian around my age going over to do the exact same thing as me for pretty much the exact same reason (she wanted some adventure and, more importantly, could not find any decent form of employment back home despite being well-educated and well-qualified). So is the modern age, I guess.

We pulled up to the gate in Seoul around 7am on Monday the 9th and I had my first bleary-eyed look at my new continent (it looked a lot like an airport). Stumbling off the plane I painlessly cleared customs and went down to the baggage carousel to claim my luggage.

Minus 1 for Asiana - they lost my bag.

Filling out the lost bag form and grabbing the one pack they did not lose, I groaned my way out into the reception area of the arrivals terminal. (Note – I could not find a better verb here for that walk that zombies do than ‘groan.’ You know that walk – where they stagger around grunting about brains and such? That was about how I felt. Any suggestions for a better word)? I walked up to the guy holding my name on a sign and, with a silent nod, followed him out into the cool, damp Korean morning.

I had arrived.