Déjà...

As usual, this blog thing is getting away from me, so here's a recap of the best parts of last six weeks or so, in chronological order:

Italy: I took a whirlwind 12-day train journey around Italy over the Toussaint (All Saint's Day) vacation with my friend Leslie. We started in rainy, confusing, gorgeous Venice where we stayed in a chilly, noisy hostel with a staff member who distinctly reminded us of Jack Sparrow. Next we got drenched staring at Juliet's Balcony in Verona, found Parma surprisingly pleasant after we missed a train and got stuck for two hours, and finally climbed to our comfy hostel in Manarola, Cinque Terre well after dark. After a good night's sleep, we strolled along mountainsides among olive groves and vineyards, stopping to gaze out across the smooth, blue sea below and to indulge in cups of gelato in four of the five tiny, colorful towns that make up Cinque Terre. Pisa underwhelmed us the next morning, though we took photos holding up the tower, just like all the other tourists. I fell in love with Florence visiting my old friend Michela in her beautiful city, wandering the streets, climbing to the city's best views, ogling David and taking hundreds of pictures of the Arno and The Ponte Vecchio. Siena gave us a day to rest with a particularly medieval view from the terrace of our charming, Rick Steves-recommended hotel. By the time we got to Rome we were exhausted, but not too tired to explore The Forum, make wishes in The Trevi Fountain, lie to The Mouth of Truth and injure our necks looking up at The Sistine Chapel. Throughout the journey, we indulged in entire pizzas, red wine, tiramisu, huge plates of pasta, cream-filled cannolis and daily helpings of gelato.

Mini frigos: Cheese and yogurt can only be bought in bulk, and our humble abodes here at Résidence Condorcet are without refrigeration, so all we English assistants have been forced to purchase mini frigos to keep our extra gruyère cold. Leslie, Claire and I went to Lille one rainy, windy Thursday afternoon to hunt down some frigos we'd found on Le Bon Coin (French Craig's List). We wound up wandering the streets and metros of Lille each carrying a mini refrigerator with a lot of personality: hot pink, electric blue or panda shaped. What better accessory could you ask for?

Zin Zin: At long last, my merry band of anglophones and I have started to make friends with the students here. Students mean parties, even engineering students. Finally, we've found the parties — once a month on Thursday night, in the lounge/bar of the dorm where we have dinner. Students dress up with safety vests, wigs, various flags, fur coats and sometimes jock straps. We made a handful of friends from Lebanon, India, Brazil, China and even France at the last Zin Zin and now they've become the hilight of our months — we talked about the last one for three days straight, and we're already anticipating the next one, two weeks away.

Jess's visit: For the first of what I hope will be many Yeosu reunions all around the world, Jess came down for the weekend to see my charming town. She brought cupcakes, which meant another joyful reunion for me. We strolled around the beginnings of Christmas Markets in Lille, snacked on sweets from the famous Meert pastry shop and pondered the translucent marble facade of Lille's most distinctive church. We spent an evening drinking wine in Becca's dorm room (though this one was different because we incorporated some soju), then Jess admitted she'd never seen Paris. We took off for a quick Parisian tour (Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur, Notre Dame de Paris) on Sunday to remedy the situation. Whatever Douai's faults, I can't complain about being an hour away from The City of Light.

Lyon: One more exciting Yeosu reunion took place last weekend with Katie at the Arcade Fire concert in Lyon. Through the snow I traversed France back to my old stomping grounds in Rhône Alpes, the region where I studied in Grenoble. The train whisked me past quaint villages with prominent church steeples and snow covered fields with snow covered cows, who were all white anyway unlike our black, brown and patterned varieties in the US. In Lyon, I stayed with a nice girl I met at the French consulate in L.A. last summer. She lives and works in the best high school in Lyon, Lycée St. Just, a castle-like former monastery perched on a hill overlooking the old quarter. Katie and I visited Le Marché des Soies (silk market) where merchants from centuries old workshops draped the tables with acres of gorgeous scarves, ties and raw silk at the lowest prices of the year. My pink, green, gray and violet scarf was still 38 euro, but it was too warm and pretty to pass up. We munched on hot pink, sugary lyonnais croissants flavored with pralines and indulged in a fabulous raclette dinner prepared by Katie's host, Hana.

Now I'm back in Douai, shivering in intermittent snow and sub-zero (Celsius) temperatures but generally in better spirits. I have plenty to enjoy: weekend trips, Christmas markets, connections with teachers, improving French abilities, a warmer coat in the mail and another Zin Zin on the horizon.

Friday nights in Douai

Tonight my merry band of English assistants sprinted through fog and strobe lights, dodged between graffiti-covered walls, crouched in corners and screamed at the sight of each other. We have discovered possibly the funnest place in Douai: Fortress Laser. For the low, low price of 4 euros a head, we got to spend 15 minutes shooting at each other in a war zone. And it was awesome — a sweaty, adrenaline-pumping thrill ride. I even won, probably for the first time in my entire laser-tagging life.

To say that Douai is small doesn't give an accurate description. Certainly, 50,000 inhabitants make up a small town, but it's more than that. Starting from 7 p.m. the streets are empty, the shops and cafes are closed, and once the sky gets dark the atmosphere feels as lonely and creepy as 4 a.m. — even if it's only 8:30 p.m.

We're all trying to give Douai a chance — how well can you possibly know a town after less than three weeks? Last Friday we found a concert by Les Anges Guardiens (The Guardian Angels) at a rustic little Irish-style pub across La Scarpe (the canal) from our building. The music was loud, the air was warm and we started the evening drinking delicious 2-euro wine at a long table outside in a square with plenty of French people. The bar is cozy with rough wooden tables, stone floors and banners for various beers and liquors. We had a quiet Friday night there the week before as well, sitting in a corner sipping white wine.

Part of Douai's somewhat-empty atmosphere comes from all the buildings that are, well, empty. Entire streets seem to be full of closed shops with "For Rent" signs plastered across their windows. Even on busy streets as many as 30% of the store fronts are without stores. I can feel the current economic troubles often in Douai — unemployment, people seeking social services, bars and shops going out of business. The eighteenth-century buildings are beautiful, and the people live up to their nice reputation, but I sometimes feel a certain sadness here. Signs proclaim Douai as "une ville qui bouge!" ("A town on the move!") but most people don't seem too proud to be here or too keen on staying.

All that said, I'm optimistic about this place. Travel opportunities aside, (And they are amazing travel opportunities.) I've found parts of the city I really like. The belfry, for example, the intricate carvings on the doors, the colorful shutters and trim on some windows — I love really looking and appreciating that every-day beauty. I've found a little cafe as well, called L'Equitable. They sell fair-trade, responsible coffee and tea, along with delicious crêpes and soups. I've made friends with the owner, a short, rosy-cheeked man with a huge smile and a welcoming demeanor. L'Equitable welcomes average Douaisiens and misfits alike, and I'm slowly getting to know the staff. I'm going to become a regular, because that's the way to enjoy this town — I have to embrace it for what it is, and get to know the people who are happy to be here.

La rentrée

Douai is home to some 50,000 French people, the most beautiful belfry in Northern France, between 10 and 20 foreign language assistants, and as of one week ago, yours truly. Eighteenth-century buildings with tall windows and sloping red roofs line the streets and canals. Clouds in various shades of gray cover the sky more often than not. Everyone can tell I'm not French, but they smile and say "Bonjour!" when I pass. If I hold the door for someone I always hear "Merci!" and Douaisiens, as they're called, always hold the door for me.

A few square kilometers of 3- and 4-story buildings surrounding the belfry and a cathedral make up centre ville (downtown), just five minutes walk from my home in La Maison des Elèves, Résidence Condorcet. My room is about 10x12, including the bathroom. I live on a hallway with five other English language assistants from the U.S. and England, tucked away at one end of the 4th floor. All the French students know we're here, and we eat beige food together in the dining hall, but so far we haven't had much interaction. We are constantly formulating plans for how to meet some French people our own age, but have yet to put any into action.

Yesterday we took the train up to Lille to poke around in the big city. More beautiful old buildings (some with cannonballs still stuck in their walls from old assaults) with boutiques, cafés and patisseries lining cobble-stone streets. I ate the Belgian/Northern French delicacy moules frites (fries with mussels) and a sweet, crumbly blackberry tart.

On our way home we had a little adventure... we saw there was a train leaving at 6:05, and the train to Douai was at 6:05, so we got on. For about 30 minutes we sat around making dirty Harry Potter jokes until Kate mentioned that she didn't recognize the countryside, or any of the towns we'd passed. We searched unsuccessfully for them on our maps until a man came by to check our tickets.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Douai," we replied.

"Well then you have a problem," he said, "because this train is going to Belgium."

We wound up in Tournai, a small-ish town with a towering cathedral whose spires dominate the skyline. In the 45 minutes before our train back to Lille, we found some mystery kebabs with chicken marinated in an unknown greasy, yellow sauce. We returned to Douai unscathed, if two hours later than we'd intended.

Back in the old country

I've been home for about six weeks now and that has led to a resounding silence here on the old blog. But what can you say about coming home from a year and a half in a place so different as South Korea? A lot, I guess, but the exact things are harder to put my finger on.

Reverse Culture Shock, first of all. When I came home from a semester in Grenoble, France three years ago I wrote an article about reverse culture shock for a feature writing class. Even as I read up about the unsettling feeling of returning home when you've had profound, self-changing and self-discovering experiences abroad, I didn't anticipate the way the shock of coming home would leave me floored for months. Reconnecting with old friendships proved more difficult than I ever imagined and I was at a loss to answer the simple yet epic question "How was France?"

For whatever reason, this return has gone much more smoothly. I geared up for it, remembering that much as I was ready to come home, I would probably be bored here and have some trouble adjusting. I've spent time with close friends who were genuinely curious to hear about my travels, and friends who I kept in touch with pretty well while I was away, so they already knew some of my stories. I've traveled extensively in the US while I've been back, from visits to friends and family to cross-country road trips on various errands, so I never got bored. (So far I've visited Los Angeles, Salt Lake City, Oklahoma City, Austin, Seattle, Las Vegas and San Francisco. This weekend I'm headed to Chicago before I hit France.) And I've found myself more appreciative of what I have here, the parts I missed and the parts I criticized while I was away.

The one place where I really encountered culture shock was the Flatirons Crossing mall in Broomfield where I worked at the movie theater in high school. Asia is crowded, sure, but the crowds at this mall overwhelmed me. The din of all those English conversations I understood every word of deafened me. And I had no idea where to turn in the sprawling stores with rack after rack of clothing in all different sizes. Not to mention those spendy price tags. I was reeling and uncomfortable in 5 minutes flat, and after 20 I had to leave.

Other than that it's mostly daily inconveniences like spending $7 on a cheap meal instead of $3, and having to obey traffic laws when I'm driving that have me muttering about the U.S., much in the same way I cursed Korea. I don't really mean it in either place.

In fact, I find myself missing Korea quite a bit. I've visited Korea Towns wherever I can in my travels and sought out Korean barbecue joints. As anticipated, every third sentence I speak starts with "In Korea..." or even "In Japan..." or "In Vietnam..." And the fact that bars kick you out at 1:30 a.m. instead of, essentially, never is a constant disappointment. Truth be told, while I'm enjoying home I find myself missing noraebang, K-pop, my scooter and all my friends even more than I expected. And the more I enjoy home, the more I don't want to leave. France will be great and I'm excited to go, but once I get back, I'm also excited to find a place I can stay for awhile, somewhere I'll have a few years before it's time to say goodbye.

Bathing with Strangers

Before I came to Korea I avoided nakedness to the best of my ability. Locker rooms made me uncomfortable. Even having my roommates getting ready in the bathroom while I was in the shower took some getting used to. Once I arrived, all of that had to change in a flash because of one relaxing and quintessentially Korean group activity: public bathing.

A jjimjilbang is a gender-separated public bath house where Koreans (and brave foreigners) go to soak, socialize and scrub themselves raw. Tess told me about them long before I arrived in Yeosu, and I was very curious to give it a try before I arrived. Going to Asia was all about new experiences, and baring all in a semi-public place was certainly new to me.

One of my first nights out mingling with Yeosu's wayguk (foreigner) community, I met a nice girl named Kerrie who offered me the chance to try a jjimjilbang on my very first Sunday in Korea. After a harrowing taxi adventure across town (harrowing because of the packed and terrifying driving conditions as well as my inability to communicate with the taxi driver) I met her and two of her friends outside The Ocean Resort, a towering hotel/public bath/water park built along the coastline in preparation for the 2012 World Expo to be hosted in this fair city.

We paid, dropped off our shoes and headed for the locker room. As you might imagine, the first moments of stripping down are the strangest, but a few minutes after you've folded up your clothes safely in your locker and wandered into the bath house you stop noticing. Everywhere around you are women of every shape, size and age completely exposed with no concern for hiding flab, cellulite or stretch marks. So many Korean women appear perfect on the street, sitting around in community with them at this bath house made me feel connected in a way American locker rooms never have. Granted, the connection was not perfect — we foreigners definitely caught a few stares, but it made me wonder if seeing all those women's bodies just as they are would do something for self images back home.

But the jjimjilbang process is not all sitting and contemplating. First, you sweat out all those impurities in a series of super-heated rooms. Some jjimjilbangs have little igloo-shaped rooms covered with crystals, each heated to 35, 45, 60 or even 70 degrees Celsius. One of my most embarrassing moments happened with Kerrie in one of these rooms, but more on that later. Once you are sufficiently sweat-drenched, you rinse off in the shower, then return to hot hot heat to soak in similarly scalding pools. Each pool has water infused with a different herb or mineral, such as jade or green tea. Finally, when your skin is completely pruney, you head to the scrubbing lines, rows of benches in front of mirrors where you exfoliate away all the dead skin on your body, and help your friends or nearby ajjumas (older Korean women) with a back scrub if they can't reach.

Now for my embarrassing story: in addition to having an aversion to public nudity, I am highly heat sensitive. Kerrie and I were sitting in one of these 45-degree-Celsius rooms on that first fateful jjimjilbang outing when she started telling me a story. As I listened to her I felt my head start to spin, but I was determined to hear her out. When she finished, I confessed that I needed to step outside. We stumbled out the door and suddenly my vision went black and I found myself crumpled on the floor. That's right, I fainted, butt naked to the floor in a room full of strangers with only a girl I'd just met to help me. Fortunately she was nice and brought me water without so much as a giggle, but it was still pretty darn embarrassing.

Periphery

I find myself struggling with my list of the best things about Korea.

This doesn't mean what you might think it means. Korea has plenty of great qualities mixed in with some bad ones, much like anywhere else. The problem is that I keep trying to write about deep cultural aspects — yes, even deeper than food or pop music. As I try to explain culture here, it becomes more and more apparent that I know nothing about it. I've observed it, sure, living here for 18 months, but the life of foreigners in Korea is totally peripheral. I don't talk like a Korean. (I don't even speak Korean.) I don't look like a Korean. I don't think like a Korean. My perspective is entirely different in such a basic way that I'm at a loss even to describe it.

Maybe foreigners who stick to their foreign communities feel like this in every country. Probably, even. I feel like in Korea this alien feeling is further amplified. Korea, like Japan, is one of the few places on the planet where the borders of a country align with a nation of people — a group that all identify with each other, not divided based on history, culture or ethnicity. All the emphasis here seems to fall on sameness. Even fashion and hairstyles all fit in the same category, following the trends beyond anything I've noticed in the States. So much sameness makes every little difference stand out ten fold — and we do, all foreigners here.

You never get used to the staring. You train yourself not to notice it unless it's too blatant, but the comments and conspicuous glances of passers-by are always there. Some of it is innocent enough. Children look up at you, eyes wide with nerves, before calling "Hello!" Old women, hunch-backed and weathered-skinned, call "ipuda" (beautiful) as I pass. (It's not just me, Caucasian looks, pale skin and light eyes are the sought-after standard of beauty here, along with being tall and thin.) Some of it is obnoxious, like teenagers screaming "hello" and then erupting into cackles, or lewd lingering gazing from drunk old men. Sometimes it's frightening and offensive, like when a Korean man on the street asked me for sex, assuming that foreign women are easy, or that I was one of the Russian hookers you sometimes encounter here.

I have enjoyed my time teaching at Yeodo Middle School, but I find that when I'm not teaching a class, I spend most of it alone, or interacting with other Americans and Brits through cyberspace. Of the school's 800+ inhabitants, I am the only non-Korean. That's what I signed up for, not a cry for pity, just one more example of isolation.

The attention can be nice sometimes, a friend of mine loves living like a "D-list celebrity" here. I confess it's flattering that strangers call me beautiful when I trudge to the convenience store in my glasses on an unwashed Sunday morning, but I'm ready to get back to fitting in.

I had a conversation with a 15-year expat in a bar in Tokyo last October. He told me he'd been so excited about Japan when he first arrived, and so successful in business and learning Japanese, but he'd never been able to integrate. You'll always be a foreigner here, he said. Go home. I never expected to stay here, to become Korean, but I miss fitting into a community larger than the band of 100 foreigners in Yeosu. Reverse culture shock or not, I know in three weeks coming home will feel just right.

Swimming with sharks

Two months ago I swam with the sharks in the biggest tank at Busan Aquarium. Here's an account of the experience:

The Busan Aquarium is buried under the wide, yellow strip of sand that makes up Haeundae Beach just before the landscape drags the eye upward to the tops of the hi-rise hotels across the way. I’ve been here four times in my lengthy tenure in Korea and this 65-degree day in the middle of May is by far the warmest I’ve seen. Heather, Tess and I are waiting for Michael Jones, shark dive instructor extraordinaire, to show us how to survive an hour in the shark tank, an experience we've each paid 90,000krw for (less than $90). I’m wistfully remembering the potato burrito with real guacamole and the clean, minty flavor of my mojito from the Mexican beach bar the night before.

Michael, a portly Canadian who’s been in Korea 15 years and leading dives at the Busan Aquarium for 7, turns up on time and leads us down the stairs into a classroom in the belly of the aquarium. He talks about Lemon Sharks chewing on fish, human skulls found in 200 kg groupers just like the ones in the tank, equalizing air pressure, and how many fingers we’re to use when we wave at the school children on the other side of the glass. We sign papers saying we won’t sue Michael or the Busan Aquarium if the Nurse Sharks (better referred to as Sand Tiger Sharks when picking up dudes at the bar that night, Michael advises) decide to stick their jagged, curved teeth into us.

We wrestle with the thick rubber of our wetsuits, tugging, pinching and rolling them until we’re panting. Then we wait, looking in small tanks in the training and treatment area above the surface of the big tank, guessing how a three-legged starfish being nursed back to health by aquarium employees lost its missing limbs.

Now the rest of our gear. Masks first. We hold them to our faces and suck in through our noses. If they stay without us holding them, we have a good fit. Next, weight belts. We place the orange strips of fabric dotted with heavy yellow squares on the ground before us, swing them behind us and hoist them up around our waists. Last we get our air tanks, nestled in huge black backpacks with tubes and regulators spilling out of them. After Michael helps us strap them on we’re reeling from their weight, crouched slightly forward to avoid over balancing and falling back. We traipse between tanks of sick animals, narrowly avoiding tripping over water pipes on our way to the training lock. Today we share it with four sick Eagle Rays with pitch black tails nearly the same color as the floor of the lock, so we shuffle along the bottom, precarious because of our tanks, trying to avoid treading on the patients.

“Now my favorite part of leading these dives,” Michael jokes. “Divers, on your knees.”

We laugh and kneel in the lock, water up to our elbows, grateful it takes some of the weight of our tanks off our backs. Following Michael's instructions, we lean right and swing out our arms to capture the tubes of our dive regulators, slip them into our mouths and begin breathing tank air. We review hand motions for OK, go up, go down, come here, there’s a problem, stop. We ease into it, first breathing with our eyes above water, then lying on the surface looking at the shells and bits of kelp on the bottom. Finally, we sink down, all in a line with Michael in front of us. He motions to us in turn, asking first if we’re “OK,” then having us demonstrate removing and replacing our regulators and emptying our masks in case a little water seeps in as we dive.

None of us can do this quite right at first. The combination of letting in some water to demonstrate, then pressing the tops of our masks into our foreheads and breathing out our noses is somehow complex when we try it underwater with regulators in our mouths. Tess panics, wide eyed, looking defeated and terrified. She’s embarrassed more than she should be. We’re all a little scared. Breathing underwater through a tube goes against the most basic instincts. We should be unnerved and we are. Michael holds her hand, tells her she’ll be alright. Then, once we’ve all adequately de-watered our masks, he tells her she executed a demonstration-quality mask emptying in the eyes of the Professional Association of Dive Instructors and makes her his partner for the dive.

Finally, it’s time to really get wet. I lead our shuffle-kneeling journey across the lock, out the gate and onto the clear plastic tunnel filled with spectators. Michael tosses me the rope and tells me to start descending the side of the tunnel into the tank. Lean back, keep your legs a little apart for balance, equalize every two fists or so, he reminds me. I lean. I set my feet a little more than shoulder width apart. I lower myself slowly. Right fist. Left fist. Breathe. Pinch my nose and blow softly to equalize the pressure in my ears. Repeat. Breathe. The pressure builds. I wave at Michael, point to my ear. Something’s wrong. I look up to avoid the glass-bottomed boat touring around the surface, then raise myself a bit and try again. Again. Equalized and the pain in my ear subsides. Two more fists down it returns. Equalize. Right fist. Left fist. Equalize. Trouble again. I blow on my pinched nostrils four times before I equalize. Right fist. Left fist. On the bottom now, feeling the crunchy white gravel below my bootie’d feet for a moment before my ears are screaming again. I wave to Michael. Something’s wrong. He hoists me up to his shoulder. I try to equalize. Almost there. Once more and I’m alright. Back on the bottom my ear still hurts. Michael guides me to my knees to wait for Tess and Heather. I try to equalize again but the ache persists, so I get used to it.

My surroundings make a worthy distraction. Currents and the weight of my tank throw me off balance as I float-swim-stumble through the cool, thick water. Sharks dart past me – the tank holds twenty or so – their mouths overflowing with sharp, white teeth that are scattered across the rocks and the bottom of the tank as they shed them. They swim toward me, staring, and past with their eyes sticking to me. Families on the other side of the glass flash peace signs and wave at me. We snap each other’s photos as the sharks or schools of fish swim between us. My ears still ache. My mouth is dry as I focus on breathing slowly, steadily, constantly through my regulator, just as Michael instructed. The mask restricts my vision to the oval in front of me. When Heather points to the shark just beside me or above my head I have to twist unnaturally to see what she’s looking at. I hear the jangling of Michael’s bell ringing to catch our attention. He signals to us to stay together, to follow him closely. Tess, Heather and I pass the underwater camera back and forth as we float around each other waving at children beyond the glass, staring down the sharks, gazing back into the tank. We try and fail to keep our hands close to our bodies, remembering that the animals are hand-fed by scuba divers and we shouldn't confuse them unless we want to wind up armpit-deep in the mouth of a grouper.

Then, suddenly as it began, the dive is over. Michael beckons me back to the rope. I pull myself up to the top of the tank, remembering to keep my mask on and my regulator in when I inflate my buoyancy control apparatus at the top so that if I slip I won’t fall all the way to the bottom and if I do at least I’ll be able to see and breathe while I’m there. Michael calls me a Teacher’s Pet for my trouble. I s’pose it fits.

Food

After a year and a half in Asia, I would sell my soul for the delicious, spicy familiarity of a Chipotle burrito. That said, Korea has some seriously mouth-watering delicacies that I will doubtless miss when I leave. Here are a few of my favorites:

Kimchi: Ask almost any Korean person his or her favorite food and you're probably going to hear "kimchi" as the answer. It's the national dish, a super food filled with vitamins that aids with digestion, it's supposed to keep you happy and healthy if you eat it every day -- the more you scarf down, the better. Any table at any restaurant in all of Korea will have at least one plate of spicy pickled cabbage coated with chili sauce. Kimchi comes in hundreds of varieties and is at its best when made at home by a loving grandmother. Women get together to make kimchi each winter, a long and laborious process of mixing vegetables and spices in a large bowl with increasingly tired arms. Last November about twenty other foreigners and I helped a friend to make kimchi in her bar.

Korean Barbecue: Name your variety: samgyupsal, galbi, duck, chicken, eel -- all of it is fabulous. This dish is grilled on a barbecue set into the table over either a gas heat source or a bucket of charcoals nestled next to restaurant patrons' toes -- like most Korean food, this stuff is best enjoyed sitting on the floor with your legs crossed under the table. The server places a slab of meat on the grill where it pops and sizzles next to mushrooms, onions, garlic and kimchi. When it's looking browned and just a little bit crispy, you take out tongs and scissors to dice it into bite-sized pieces. Next, you take a leaf of lettuce and spread it across the palm of your hand, then drop a bit of meat into the center with your chopsticks. Add a scoop of spicy red bean paste called samjeong, a few veggies, a bit of kimchi and a slice of garlic, then wrap the whole thing with your lettuce leaf and stuff it into your mouth, all in one bite.

Chamchi jjigae: This spicy tuna soup sustained me all last fall and into the winter. It comes out boiling and bubbling in a little black cauldron, hot enough to scald your entire mouth, as I discovered the first time I tried it. The soup is orange with hot spices and full of mushrooms, cabbage, onions and tuna. It even has oval-shaped slices of rice cake, just to prove it's really Korean. Chamci chiggae always comes with a little cup of rice that I mix in with the soup to give it some density and protect myself from burning my mouth by eating it too fast.

Halloween rolls: It coud be argued that these are not really Korean, but I've only ever found them here so I'm still mentioning them. These sushi-esque rolls are served wrapped in seaweed and rice dotted with sesame seeds. Inside is the best part -- a surprisingly delicious crunchy and creamy combination of pumpkin and fried chicken.

Mandu: Korea's dumpling. These doughy balls stuffed wtih a blend of meat, veggies and rice noodles can be enjoyed in many ways. They come in soups, with ramen, stuffed with kimchi, the size of your thumb or of two fists together, boiled or fried. All are delicious and worth trying, especially dipped in the spicy sauce that accompanies them in restaurants.

Juk: Korean cuisine offers no better way to warm up from the inside out on a frigid winter day than with a heaping bowl of this rice porridge. The hearty and creamy rice has meat and vegetables mixed in. I go for tuna vegetable, but there are more interesting varieties such as kimchi octopus for the adventuresome. The meal comes in a bowl the size of your face with an array side dishes to mix in for extra flavor: spiced, dried beef, kimchi, spicy red paste. The meal usually finishes with cool plum tea to cleanse the palate.

Chamchi Doep-bab: Spicy red stew of tuna, vegetables and kimchi, served mixed with strips of dried seaweed and steamed white rice.

Kimbap: Korea's answer to fast food. These rolls look like sushi, but they're filled with pickled raddish, ham, fish paste, carrots and other vegetables, all wrapped in rice and seaweed. It comes in a variety of flavors with stuffings like tuna, kimchi, even fried pork. One of my favorites is the classic kimbap wrapped in a blanket of scrambled egg.

Soju: This cheap (about a dollar a bottle) strong (20% to 45% alcohol) clear liquor is a staple of Korean culture. Some drink it straight, others mix it with cola, cider (like Sprite), fruit cocktails or even with beer to make a drink called "so-mek" (beer is called "mekju) in Korean). You'll find a bottle or five on just about every restaurant table in the country, and crowds of old men drunk off it stumbling home each night through any area with bars.

K-pop and Noraebang

In the past year and a half I've complained about Korea a lot. Pushy old women, homicidal taxi drivers, people peeing and spitting all over the sidewalks, pervasive vanity and materialism, and an over abundance of multi-colored neon lights are just a few of the things that have irritated me. But more on that later. For now I want to remember the good stuff. Whatever its faults, I've had fun here, learned about myself and the world, and grown up a good deal. Coming here was one of the best choices I ever made, or at least one I'm happy with, so to remember this temporary country of mine well and part on a high note, I present Korea's greatest hits.

I'll start with music, in honor of my little url up there. I have had some great musical experiences in Korea thanks to K-pop and noraebang.

Bring on the distaste from true musicians and musical connossieurs. I do not contend that either K-pop or noraebang has done anything for music, but both are so much fun I can't help loving them.

K-pop is the abbreviation for Korean pop music. It's arguably even more contrived, cutesy, advertising-driven and looks-focused than its international counterparts. The outfits are over the top, the singers are constantly featured on reality television and almost every band member has admittedly had some sort of plastic surgery. Groups record lengthy jingles for new cellphones and release them as hit singles. (Take BigBang and 2ne1's Lollipop, advertising the Lollipop cell phone, for example.) Despite the overt commercialism, K-pop comes out with some very catchy tunes, some ridiculous costumes (that one inspired my Halloween costume last year), and music videos with soap-opera dramatic storylines. Sometimes they even pull out a monkey playing guitar. From the week I arrived in Korea, I have loved it. At first I pretended I listened to it because knowing the latest happenings of Rain and Lee Hyo Ri would get me in good with my students. It's true, there's nothing a 14-year-old middle school student loves better than sharing an oggle of CN Blue with her teacher, but the student bonding thing was all pretext. My love of catchy K-pop tunes is pure -- and why shouldn't it be?

Now there are those among the vast 외국인 ("waygookin," Korean for foreigner) community who would debate K-pop's position among Korea's best, but no one would challenge the supreme awesomeness of noraebang. Noraebang divides into two Korean words, 노래 or norae meaning "song" and 방 or bang meaning "room." Traditional noraebang-ing happens around 3 a.m. as the conclusion to a night out. Along with 5-10 of your friends, you go to one of the plentiful noraebangs and rent out a room by the hour for about $20. (My favorite is called My Sweet Show and has glowing floors, velvet couches, crystal chandeliers, swirling colored lights and plentiful teddy bears.) From there you search out songs in a huge book and punch in the corresponding numbers, then belt them out with no one but your closest friends to witness whatever crimes you may commit against tone, key or pitch. I never truly appreciated Journey, Madonna, or Total Eclipse of the Heart or even The Killers until I met noraebang. I fear that a night out in the States, or any other country for that matter, may never compare.

Tell me you love me

Rarely a day passes when I don't see a pair of young Koreans decked out in matching couples garb: each one sporting a t-shirt with half a heart on it, or with the very same logo and design. The lingerie shops on every corner feature displays of matching couples underwear, the tight boxer briefs just as lacy, pink or leopard-patterned as the bra and panties intended for the female half of the couple. (It's worth noting that Koreans don't believe homosexuality exists in their country.) Downtown areas have contrived date spots -- little cafes with pink walls, sheer ribbons, flowers everywhere, sometimes even seats suspended from the ceiling like porch swings. Every advertisement shows pictures of a happy couple. Shows following stories of heart-wrenching, undying love at first sight are the most popular on TV. My single 28-year-old co-workers constantly lament their lack of boyfriends. When i admitted to being single at a work dinner, the entire table of teachers raised their glasses to the hope that one day, I might find a boyfriend.

In short, Korea is obsessed with romance and all of it must be serious and all about love. At times I can be a little too easily intrigued, too. So here are my top 5 ridiculous Korean dating adventures:

5. Jun Chan: One weekend evening I was walking by myself to meet some friends when I noticed a cute Korean boy keeping pace with me. I looked over and he said "hi." We chatted briefly and I asked where he was going: "I'm following you to ask for your number." I laughed and gave it to him. We went for dinner the next day. I showed up late to find him wearing a backpack and holding an English textbook. "I studied all day so I could talk to you," he said. I grinned. We went to the restaurant and struggled through conversation in his admittedly not so good English. No love connection because we could barely speak to each other, but his constant looking up words in his book and his phone dictionary (Korean-English dictionaries come standard on just about every phone here) and his assertions that he was "very gentleman" each time he filled my water glass was so adorable that I couldn't stop smiling. He said again and again that I was beautiful and he had plans to tell me funny stories next time. He even walked me home all the way across the neighborhood. But then he never called me again. I guess that Korean love obsession means you pull out all the stops, even when you're not feeling it.

4. P: This boy will remain semi-anonymous because, though things didn't work out between us, he's a nice guy who doesn't deserve to be mocked. But the story's too funny not to tell. One weekend when I'd been seeing P for a couple weeks we went to a baseball game in Gwangju with a group of friends. Out at the bar he decided to get as drunk as possible with his best friends. I laughed along, but got more and more annoyed. That annoyance reached a breaking point when the three of them dropped their pants in the street and started smashing signs and jumping on cars. In their underwear. Mortified and unsure of what to do, I took off running toward the hotel through the crowds of Koreans wandering Gwangju's downtown shopping and partying area. P, holding up and periodically dropping his pants, chased me, occasionally pausing to high-five a cheering spectator, until he caught up with me in front of a convenience store and tackled me to the pavement.

3. Sung Gyung: The lead-up to the first Korea match in The World Cup was a whirlwind. We spent the afternoon running from one social commitment to the next, all the while searching out t-shirts and light-up horns to make sure we'd fit in with the cheering crowds. By the time we made our way to Longlife to watch the kickoff the bar was packed to brimming with chanting, flag-waving fans, but fortunately, Sung Gyung and two of his friends were nice enough to share their table with us. We yelled, we laughed, we high-fived, we jumped with joy as Korea crushed Greece 2-0. Then we went to noraebang where Sung Gyung charmed me by serenading me with my favorite BigBang song. He wandered off plastered, but texted me how much he liked me. I had to ask Wendy multiple times before I could remember his name, but I rounded out the night thinking he was alright and hoping to see him again. Then began the texting. Seven or eight times a day. Always in poor to incomprehensible English. Often consisting exclusively of confessions of love and how much he missed me. In the most recent message he told me to teach him English and cook him dinner. Ha. I don't cook for anyone.

2. Cheol Hoon: One Friday night I went out to Wabar for a drink with some friends. I thought I was just hanging out and rounding out the night with some noraebang, but actually I'd caught the attention of a neighboring Korean man in his late twenties. The next night I was out late watching the US team get knocked out of The World Cup at Soyouki, and a waiter approached me with a note in decent English. It contained a phone number and a request that I call. I caved to curiosity and sent out a text introducing myself and asking my admirer's name. "I know your name is Julie," he replied. "I saw you Friday night and I heard it." He then told me he'd written the note on Friday but been too shy to give it to me. Then he spotted me on Saturday and followed me into Soyouki, waited an hour to catch me alone, and finally gave up and passed the note to a waiter. Curious, flattered and only slightly creeped out, I agreed to meet him in hopes that someone so interested might also be interesting. And from the second I saw him, I knew he was, but it was too late to flee since he'd seen me, too. Cheol Hoon was carrying a shiny black leather purse and had his hair blown out into a gelled puff around his head. He was wearing an ill-fitting white t-shirt emblazoned with a metallic gold heart, a powder blue blazer and caramel and white patterned bowling shoes. We ran out of things to say to each other after about 10 minutes, but he did not find this discouraging. Instead, after we awkwardly sipped our tea for awhile he took me to a restaurant where he ordered two portions of everything and then refused to eat any of it. I was killing time until my friends finished work and shamelessly taking advantage of the free food, so we rounded out the evening at a bar with his friend who spoke more English than Cheol Hoon but used it almost exclusively to hint that my date should quickly become my boyfriend.

1. Jayden: I met the boy who deserves the top spot at a nightclub in Gwangju about a month after I arrived in Korea. We hit it off at the club so well that he asked for my phone number even though I was returning to Yeosu and he was headed back to university in Seoul at the end of the weekend. For the next few weeks he called or texted me every day -- lavishing an as of yet unknown level of attention on me. Sometimes too much. I remember one night he called me again and again at 3 a.m. until I picked up the phone, all because he'd had a dream that I killed myself because I missed him so badly, and he had to make sure it wasn't true. I did not heed this warning of unwanted intensity to come. About a month after we'd met, when I'd seen him just once in the interim, I headed up to Seoul with a group of friends and made plans to meet up with Jayden. I took the subway across the city alone in a cute new dress, and he met me outside. He took me to a restaurant that served huge, bubbling pots of seafood soup that spat bits of bright orange liquid all over the tables, and all over my new dress. While there he tricked me into eating a crunchy/chewy fish brain that squirted salty fluid into my mouth with each bite. Then we went to a cafe where he fed me each bite of fruit off his chopsticks, despite an uncomfortable audience. Finally, he took me to a bar where he looked deep into my eyes and uttered some of the most ridiculous words I've ever heard from a man I barely knew: "Julie, tell me you love me."

**Disclaimer: like all who date, I do crazy things sometimes, too. But since this is my blog and they're embarrassing, my silly moments are not included in this list.

Monsooned

The sticky, damp blanket of monsoon season has descended upon Korea
yet again. Outside the window of the teacher's office where I while
away the time between classes mountains, hillsides and sometimes even
the dirt sports field next to the school are obscured by weighty mist.
The air is heavy with moisture even when buckets of rain aren't
pouring down from the sky. My breath catches walking out of the air
conditioned school library or my apartment, crashing into the clingy,
humid air that hangs on me like a net, like a weight pressing on my
chest because it's so much harder to pull into my lungs.

After just a week of true monsoon season everything already smells
slightly of mold. I've placed white plastic buckets of charcoal and
other humidity-eating substances around my apartment, but still it
never seems quite dry. The Korean shower system -- a shower head that
comes out of the sink above a drain in the floor making the entire
bathroom the shower stall -- leaves my bathroom constantly soggy.
Everyone's hair is limp and frizzy. Green-gray stains drip down the
white outside walls from the roof of my school. Doing laundry is
nearly impossible because everything must be line dried so towels and
jeans could stay wet for an entire week. My most prized scooter is
pretty much useless in this weather

It may seem strange for me to write a blog about the weather,
especially the second time I've gone through it, but perhaps you'll
forgive me since I grew up in the desert. Things do not mold in
Colorado, at least nothing but bread. The air is dry, thin and nearly
always clear. Fog is just as threatening as a blizzard and three times
as rare. I can remember just one impenetrably foggy night in my entire
Colorado childhood. So even the second time around, monsoon season
shocks me. However, I'm pleased to say that my memories of last year
are so scarring that it doesn't seem quite so bad yet.

In addition to the whinge factor, weather deserves a mention because
it is a point of pride for many Koreans. Since my first weeks here I
have heard all about Korea's four distinct seasons. The truth of this
claim is somewhat debatable (this spring, for instance, was notable
for its show of flowers, but it stayed just about winter cold until at
least the end of April) but worth mentioning because it is so often
debated.

These seasons dictate everything from wardrobe choices and temperature
control to heating. No matter how hot or sunny it might be in May,
beach season does not start until July, and regardless of gorgeous
September weather, it ends August 31st. Even if it's still hot in
mid-October, Korean girls are wearing knit caps and baggy sweaters. If
your co-teacher tells you your outfit is "very summer" in April, it's
not a compliment, it's a disapproving reminder that you're dressed out
of season.

대한민국! Go Korea! Fighting!

The streets, bars, stadiums, supermarkets and middle school hallways
of South Korea are all shouting red - the Korean (Konglish) term for
cheering on Korea's mighty red devil soccer team in the World Cup. I
can call it soccer because they call it that here, too.

I have never cared about soccer, at least not since I quit my
neighborhood team at age 11 after one too many losing seasons. I have
never cared about professional sports in general - even when the
Broncos or the Seahawks made it to the Superbowl, or when the Rockies
played in the World Series. I almost got into rugby during the Rugby
World Cup which France hosted in 2007, the same time I was there
studying in Grenoble. I watched a few games in the background at bars
and jumped on the bandwagon at the last minute to cheer in the streets
then slink away in shame for France's last two games (shocking victory
over New Zealand then crushing defeat by England).

However, World Cup fever has seized me and now I'm chanting and
cheering like my high school self, decked out in spirited red from
head to toe, shouting and jumping for my team. I stay up all night to
watch the games, I've set fifa.com as my homepage and I've developed
an irrational disgust for Argentina and off-sides calls. I have to
support the USA as well as Korea.

I talk soccer with the other teachers at work, gesturing wildly as we
celebrate Korea's first victory over Greece, mourning their loss to
Argentina. Resentment twists my lips as they tell me how the USA tied
England in their first match out of sheer luck. They laugh as my voice
gets higher and louder when I describe the last-moment goal that led
to the US defeat of Algeria and propelled my home team into the Round
of 16.

This week I've been giving my students a speaking test, asking them
whether or not sports are important. They struggle through forming
sentences about health and exercise. I just smile. I agree with them,
but in the midst of the World Cup, I see that sports are important
because they bring us together.

Climb up to the top

In my first few months in Yeosu, way back at the end of March 2009, I went for a hike.

I woke early in my one-room apartment and picked up my little 10,000 won (less than $10) backpack storing water and some Reeses Peanut Butter Cups I intended to share with my hiking group. I slipped a polar fleece over my thermal undershirt and torn jeans, and I headed out into the soft light of 7 a.m. I walked through the alleys lined with hole-in-the-wall bars and restaurants toward my local branch of the poorly named bakery franchise, Paris Baguette, on the rotary, the major landmark near my apartment. Young Min, the 40-ish Korean woman who looked 25-ish who had invited me to scale Muhusan with her hiking group, was waiting in her mini van with David, another English teacher slightly newer to Yeosu than myself. I clambered in and we were off into the swerving and honking of Korean traffic, even in the country town of Yeosu, even on a Sunday morning.

I was nervous about this hike. I grew up in Colorado, land of mountains and outdoorsy types, so I was well-versed in trailing, sweaty, red-faced and panting behind groups of real hikers. However, my guide book had told me that hiking was something of a national sport in Korea and I was determined to take all the opportunities and meet all the new people I could, so I decided to tag along anyway. Every day was an adventure in Korea, or at least that's what I told everyone at home. I wouldn't be able to tell the sorts of stories I'd need to tell to justify my trans-Pacific move unless I got out of my apartment and climbed some mountains.

Soon we boarded a bus packed with hikers. Each of them was decked out in hiking gear: neon North Face jackets, quick-dry, durable hiking pants, colorful, reflective hiking boots, neon visors and hats to keep off the sun, even aluminum walking sticks to help the hikers propel themselves up the mountain. I didn't know this yet, but everything in Korea must be done this way: seriously and with the proper gear. David, the other foreigner, and I were rather out of place in our torn jeans and sneakers, but the hiking group didn't care. They just cheered us on when we introduced ourselves over the bus's microphone, then went back to chatting, laughing and watching the comedy show playing on the TV at the front of the bus.

After two hours of windy mountain roads that left me green with motion sickness, we piled out of the bus, snapped some group photos and took off up the mountain. I do mean up the mountain. Unlike the trails I'd huffed and puffed up on Colorado, this one did not have switchbacks or other features to make the climb less strenuous. You just went up, as steep as the mountain wanted you to. I was trailing immediately, but David, Young Min and one of the higher ups in the hiking group kept pace with me. Whenever the group would stop, or on the rare occasion that I caught up with someone the other hikers gave me chewy candies and sips of iced green tea to keep my strength up. We passed masses of little colorful ribbons on trees, each covered with hangeul, Korean letters I couldn't yet read. Young Min told me they were left by other hiking groups. Members of our group had ribbons, too, and some of us, sometimes including me, had the group's flag sticking out of our backpacks.

Up and up and up we went in a way that seemed endless to me. I gasped for breath, took plenty of breaks and felt embarrassed, but in the end even I reached the peak. Only then did I notice that the other hikers who'd put me to shame had been carting huge Styrofoam crates. They opened them now revealing offerings for the mountain's god to pray for the group's safety in the coming hiking season. The hikers arranged dishes of fruit, vegetables and kimchi around a huge pickled pig's head, all on a tarp. Then everyone in turn lit incense, poured an offering of soju and placed minty green Korean money around the pig. I watched the hikers bow, mesmerized by the sheer difference from what I was used to seeing on a mountain top. Then Young Min reached out her hand and brought me with her to participate. Unsure what to do, I bowed before the offerings as well, following her lead as I pressed my palms against my thighs, then on the ground, then rested my forehead on the tarp.

Once everyone had made their offerings we all set about eating. The other hikers pulled out Tupperware containers from their backpacks, sharing kimbap (Korean fast food made up of rice and seaweed wrapped around meat and vegetables), fruit and a hundred other small dishes I didn't recognize. Suddenly my Powerbar seemed pretty sad, but the hiking group would never let anyone go hungry. They shared everything they'd lugged up the mountain, even though all I had to offer in return was a few peanut butter cups. We stared out from the mountain's bald top across the hazy hillsides and forests below us. Young Min told me an old king of Korea had been chased out of his capital by invaders. He had come here and felt so safe on the mountain he might have been home with his mother, so he called it Muhusan in honor of that feeling. We took photos with a plaque at the top of the mountain and began our long descent.

I was still slow on the way down, impeded by a fear of falling straight down the steep, muddy trail. The hikers were still nice. When we got back to the bus we took off to a parking lot in an unfamiliar town where the group once more pulled out Styrofoam crates. These held rice, lettuce leaves, spicy samjeong and slabs of pork for a Korean barbecue dish called samgeyopsal. On little plastic tables in the parking lot we dug into the meal, and a few bottles of beer and a Korean liquor called soju. Then we took off once more to look at yellow blossoms around a river and take pictures. The men in the group took turns calling me their girlfriend. In a perhaps twist that deserves more discussion, the standard of beauty in Korea is not so much a Korean girl as a Caucasian one.

We didn't make it back until hours after we were expected. I could barely say annyeonghaseyo (hello) in Korean and they knew very little English, but by the end of the day they'd invited David and me to join the hiking group. Though I never made it on another mountain climb with them again, I still run into those hikers occasionally in Yeosu and they always manage to call out "Hello Julie!"