I have accepted a job offer in Morristown, NJ, effectively closing the door on returning to South Korea.
While anything can have a "...for now" affixed to its end, the last time I came home from Korea, I didn't go back for over four years. The circumstances were different. I had not come and gone, then came, and went again. I didn't fortuitously fall into a job (I at first dismissed as a fly-by-night and ignored or until they contacted me again!) that would pay me much more than I have ever made before, more than I could make in South Korea, even though most of my basic expenses were covered by the school. This time it's different; I don't have a good reason to go back.
Before I got this job offer, I might have had a semi-legitimate case for the possibility. I could try to spin coming home into simply because the thought of major surgery in a foreign country had been too much, not that it, plus intense homesickness and some culture shock, plus a less-than-vested interest in teaching, was starting to cut at me. But, that was before accepting the first "career path" job I have had in 18 months. What's my case now?
But, don't cry for me, South Korea.
One door closes, another opens. I'm lucky to have had many doors close, only to have other doors open. My car dies? My brother gives me his. I break up with my girlfriend and move out of our apartment? I have a family friend willing to let me stay in her guest bedroom. I come back from South Korea to get gallbladder surgery? Charity Care pays for the entire procedure while I am unemployed and uninsured. Then, after sending countless resumes out to various companies offering anything from proofreading gigs to editing the back of porn DVD cases, I finally get a job, and it's not one I sent a resume out for; they contacted me.
But, even though this new open door holds a lot of interesting possibilities, there always remains a bit of sadness at the conclusion to an adventure. Only natural, yeah? You establish in your mind a certain set of parameters, rules, standards. And, then, it's time for them to change. Even if the new set of standards is preferable, your off-center mind sometimes looks back on those old, difficult, perhaps warped standards from yesterday with nostalgic fondness. It's only natural. That was your experience.
This chapter, this story, this arc is over...
... for now.
Speaking of warped standards of nostalgic fondness...
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Before I Ever Forget
Before I ever forget about the subtleties of living in Busan, South Korea...
In the morning, I would leave my apartment, walk down the single flight, head out, turn left down the alley, turn left onto the road, turn left onto the main road toward the Deokcheon subway entrance. The small business on the corner warehousing particle board would be hard at work piling wood into the back of those El Camino-like pickup trucks so ubiquitous in Korea. I would, most certainly later in my brief tenure, be smoking a cigarette and would at this point finish it off at the entrance to the subway. Sometimes, the man tending to the free morning newspaper stand would be restocking. Sometimes, one of the cabbies that waited for people to emerge from the subway would be outside of his Hyundai or Kia smoking his own cigarette -- we never did say hello. After I finished my smoke, I would usually pull my Sansa Clip from my front pocket, turn it on, and tune out.
Sometimes, I would get a small coffee from Coffee Tomato. Coffee Tomato is a silly name, it was coffee from Italy, or something like that. I guess that was the association. They made the coffee in a nice way -- single drip -- but it was usually pretty bland, tasteless. At least it was better than Maxim.
After I got my coffee, I would usually head straightaway to the subway headed toward Namsanjeong station, two stops away. On this track, the newest of the three train lines, a monitor would play in a 5-to-10 minute loop the same commercials over and over and over. There was the Wings conference, some sort of Korean Christian concert or something that happened in February, but continued to be promoted well into late March. There was Busan Women's University, with its laughing, pretty Korean lasses, one of them participating in some exercise routine where it looks like she was giving a karate chop. There was something in Korean about the subway car itself, or the subway system, or subway safety, which showed nothing but foreigners and a foreign subway system. Then, near the end of my stay, there was the commercial promoting tomatoes.
Oh, yes, the one promoting tomatoes, with its too happy children, maniacally laughing grandfather, sexy, saucy dancing girl and, wrapping it all up, the effeminate chef, probably talking about how, like every other food product coming out of Korea, Korean tomatoes will cure cancer, give you more energy and probably even give you a long-lasting boner.
After going through the commercials, the train would stop at my destination. I would step-off amidst several running (they were always running) Koreans, head upstairs, place my subway pass card key on the sensor, walk through, head up another set of stairs and up the hill toward Mandeok Elementary. Sometimes, but very rarely, that escalator ride up to the surface would be met by the brightest, most blazing sun. Rarely.
Sometimes, I'd have another cigarette. I would usually walk a little away from the entrance, just in case any of my students saw me, which was completely possible. We were only about half-a-mile away from the school. After that, I set to walking among the other people, heading with or away from Mandeok. Sometimes, this really nice 4th grader with the world's most excellent hair but almost zero grasp on English, would see me and say hello, along with his sister, a 5th grader with also pretty low English levels but an infectious, even dopey smile. Sometimes, we would walk a little of the way together before separating in the throng.
As I approached the school and turned the corner left into the dusty dirt play area (all elementary schools in Korea seem to same the exact same dusty dirt play area), I would sometimes see the vice principal at the entrance, and we would exchange a bow. At this point I would turn off my mp3 player, wrap up the cord and put it in my pocket. Those students who were in my classes (and even plenty that were not) would see me and say "hello, teacher!" or "hello, John teacher!" or simply "hello!", especially the younger ones, where that, like "hola!" was probably the only foreign word they knew.
I would climb those steep, steep stone steps, sometimes two at a time, slip inside the glass doors, slip off my shoes and put them in my little shoe locker at the front entrance as I pulled out my rubbery sandals I'd bought at a Daeso dollar store after it became clear the school-provided sandals were about four sizes too small for my caveman American feet. I'd slip the sandals on, likely saying hello to a teacher in the process, head up to the second floor, to "English World", where I would sit down, shake the remaining cobwebs from my head, and attempt to start my day.
In the morning, I would leave my apartment, walk down the single flight, head out, turn left down the alley, turn left onto the road, turn left onto the main road toward the Deokcheon subway entrance. The small business on the corner warehousing particle board would be hard at work piling wood into the back of those El Camino-like pickup trucks so ubiquitous in Korea. I would, most certainly later in my brief tenure, be smoking a cigarette and would at this point finish it off at the entrance to the subway. Sometimes, the man tending to the free morning newspaper stand would be restocking. Sometimes, one of the cabbies that waited for people to emerge from the subway would be outside of his Hyundai or Kia smoking his own cigarette -- we never did say hello. After I finished my smoke, I would usually pull my Sansa Clip from my front pocket, turn it on, and tune out.
Sometimes, I would get a small coffee from Coffee Tomato. Coffee Tomato is a silly name, it was coffee from Italy, or something like that. I guess that was the association. They made the coffee in a nice way -- single drip -- but it was usually pretty bland, tasteless. At least it was better than Maxim.
After I got my coffee, I would usually head straightaway to the subway headed toward Namsanjeong station, two stops away. On this track, the newest of the three train lines, a monitor would play in a 5-to-10 minute loop the same commercials over and over and over. There was the Wings conference, some sort of Korean Christian concert or something that happened in February, but continued to be promoted well into late March. There was Busan Women's University, with its laughing, pretty Korean lasses, one of them participating in some exercise routine where it looks like she was giving a karate chop. There was something in Korean about the subway car itself, or the subway system, or subway safety, which showed nothing but foreigners and a foreign subway system. Then, near the end of my stay, there was the commercial promoting tomatoes.
Oh, yes, the one promoting tomatoes, with its too happy children, maniacally laughing grandfather, sexy, saucy dancing girl and, wrapping it all up, the effeminate chef, probably talking about how, like every other food product coming out of Korea, Korean tomatoes will cure cancer, give you more energy and probably even give you a long-lasting boner.
After going through the commercials, the train would stop at my destination. I would step-off amidst several running (they were always running) Koreans, head upstairs, place my subway pass card key on the sensor, walk through, head up another set of stairs and up the hill toward Mandeok Elementary. Sometimes, but very rarely, that escalator ride up to the surface would be met by the brightest, most blazing sun. Rarely.
Sometimes, I'd have another cigarette. I would usually walk a little away from the entrance, just in case any of my students saw me, which was completely possible. We were only about half-a-mile away from the school. After that, I set to walking among the other people, heading with or away from Mandeok. Sometimes, this really nice 4th grader with the world's most excellent hair but almost zero grasp on English, would see me and say hello, along with his sister, a 5th grader with also pretty low English levels but an infectious, even dopey smile. Sometimes, we would walk a little of the way together before separating in the throng.
As I approached the school and turned the corner left into the dusty dirt play area (all elementary schools in Korea seem to same the exact same dusty dirt play area), I would sometimes see the vice principal at the entrance, and we would exchange a bow. At this point I would turn off my mp3 player, wrap up the cord and put it in my pocket. Those students who were in my classes (and even plenty that were not) would see me and say "hello, teacher!" or "hello, John teacher!" or simply "hello!", especially the younger ones, where that, like "hola!" was probably the only foreign word they knew.
I would climb those steep, steep stone steps, sometimes two at a time, slip inside the glass doors, slip off my shoes and put them in my little shoe locker at the front entrance as I pulled out my rubbery sandals I'd bought at a Daeso dollar store after it became clear the school-provided sandals were about four sizes too small for my caveman American feet. I'd slip the sandals on, likely saying hello to a teacher in the process, head up to the second floor, to "English World", where I would sit down, shake the remaining cobwebs from my head, and attempt to start my day.
Monday, June 07, 2010
What Does a Morphine and Benadryl Cocktail Taste Like?
With the pain shooting through what felt like every part of my body, and Panda desperately wanting to sleep in the chair next to my hospital bed, the head nurse in Todd 6 East suggested a dose of morphine with a dose of Benadryl. As I stood by the station, clutching my IV machine, trying not to move certain ways that made the needles shoot just a little sharper, I thought it as good an idea as any.
She went over to the drug dispensing machine and began entering codes for what was called a "breakthrough dose". Oh, how I longed for my breakthroughs. A breakthrough! Eureka! I'll get stoned! Maybe that will help.
Tap-tap-tap, she went on a keypad. Click, one drawer opened, and she pulled out a dose of one drug. Tap-tap-tap, click, and out came another. It might have only been a minute or two, but it felt like forever.
First came the shot of morphine through the portal near the entryway, where the needle had been sitting my vein now for five days. That had become as natural an extension of me as had the pain. As much as I wanted it to go away, the pain felt like it had been with me, and would always be with me. So, I needed to keep it at bay. I just needed to calm it.
Next came the Benadryl, followed by a saline flush to get both well on their way through. Oh, yes. I could feel my head go light and my extremities tingle. For a moment, it felt like this cocktail was going to work.
But, the pain was still there. Clearly, it was still there. But, it was not there. It was in the other room. I could hear it yelling at me, telling me, "you'll be sorry for locking me up in here. The key's around here somewhere, and when I find it, you'll be sorry."
As Panda laid me back in the bed, the bed I had not been able to lay in for hours and hours because the pain in my back had felt like muscles separating from bone, I allowed myself a little smile. Brief. I could feel the pain, but it was in the other room. That's the best way, the most appropriate way I can describe it. Because it was still there. Clearly, the pain was still there, still apparent, not masked in any way. I could feel the pain, and yet I could not feel the pain. The Benadryl/Morphine mixture had circulated fully through me now, and I was pulsating. It was a good feeling, and I might just be able to get to sleep, finally. And maybe when I wake up, this pain will have subsided and I can get ready to go home.
I woke up 45 minutes later. The pain had found the key.
She went over to the drug dispensing machine and began entering codes for what was called a "breakthrough dose". Oh, how I longed for my breakthroughs. A breakthrough! Eureka! I'll get stoned! Maybe that will help.
Tap-tap-tap, she went on a keypad. Click, one drawer opened, and she pulled out a dose of one drug. Tap-tap-tap, click, and out came another. It might have only been a minute or two, but it felt like forever.
First came the shot of morphine through the portal near the entryway, where the needle had been sitting my vein now for five days. That had become as natural an extension of me as had the pain. As much as I wanted it to go away, the pain felt like it had been with me, and would always be with me. So, I needed to keep it at bay. I just needed to calm it.
Next came the Benadryl, followed by a saline flush to get both well on their way through. Oh, yes. I could feel my head go light and my extremities tingle. For a moment, it felt like this cocktail was going to work.
But, the pain was still there. Clearly, it was still there. But, it was not there. It was in the other room. I could hear it yelling at me, telling me, "you'll be sorry for locking me up in here. The key's around here somewhere, and when I find it, you'll be sorry."
As Panda laid me back in the bed, the bed I had not been able to lay in for hours and hours because the pain in my back had felt like muscles separating from bone, I allowed myself a little smile. Brief. I could feel the pain, but it was in the other room. That's the best way, the most appropriate way I can describe it. Because it was still there. Clearly, the pain was still there, still apparent, not masked in any way. I could feel the pain, and yet I could not feel the pain. The Benadryl/Morphine mixture had circulated fully through me now, and I was pulsating. It was a good feeling, and I might just be able to get to sleep, finally. And maybe when I wake up, this pain will have subsided and I can get ready to go home.
I woke up 45 minutes later. The pain had found the key.
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