How is it that an ajumma,
walking alone with the right combination of accoutrements, swerving,
and changes in speed can single-handedly block a sidewalk so
completely that nothing short of an armored column can pass her? Two
or three old ladies walking together become a mobile Demilitarized
Zone. Even though you approach them from behind, they seem to have
an innate sense of your location and trajectory, swinging
unaccountably into your path just as you thought you might sneak
past. It recently occurred to me that this apparently natural
tendency might have a practical social application. During times of
civic unrest, the police often find it necessary to cordon off
certain streets from angry demonstrators. My advice to them:
deputize a special Ajumma unit and send them strolling into the
trouble spots armed with a couple of shopping bags. Voila! Instant
roadblock.
Korea is a very health
conscious country. Traditional Chinese and Korean medicines are
everywhere available for a wide variety of ailments. Home remedies
are passed down through countless generations, and many people
concoct special soups and dishes with palliative effects for all
sorts of illnesses. Sick Koreans often wear cotton surgical masks,
with the intention (I assume) of preventing the spread of their
illness to their friends, classmates, or colleagues. So why is it
that the same person will peel off their mask at the water cooler,
and drink from the same unwashed cup that is used by every other
person in the building?
Earlier this year I got a
cell phone. I thought it would be easy; I brought along my bankbook,
my alien registration card, my passport, and some recent bills, all
with the intention of showing that I was legally and gainfully
employed and had some money in the bank and a stable home address.
Despite having all these things to my credit, the sales
representative said he could not register the phone in my name
because I was a foreigner, but that he would be happy to give me the
phone if a Korean friend or associate would
countersign.
Fair enough. My girlfriend
couldn't sign because she already had a phone registered with
the same company, so I began racking my brains for a reliable Korean
friend whose credentials were similarly respectable. The man said
anyone would suffice, so my girlfriend signed her younger brother's
name, even though he was not present and to this day has no
knowledge of his guarantee of my reliability. I was happy to get the
phone at last, but I was left wondering: Why is it more difficult
for a solvent foreign teacher to get a cell phone than it is for an
unemployed Korean high school student?
Most Korean bookstores
quite naturally do not carry any books in English. So why do they
inspire false hope by printing the very English word "Bookstore" on
their shop window?
Many Korean restaurants
quite thoughtfully take the trouble of translating their menus into
English for their foreign customers. Why do they not go the next
step and have them proofread by someone fluent in English? Anyone
here ever ordered a "Cherry Cock"? Even though I know what they
mean, I think I'll l pass on the "coffee made from Vietnamese
growths" for the same reason I've never dreamt of submitting a
resume full of misspelled words. What does that tell us about
the restaurant's attention to detail? If the menu was haphazardly
slapped together, why should I assume that the food was prepared
with greater care?
Why do many "Western bars" in Korea, aside from being only
superficially Western, (posters and baseball jerseys on the walls)
seldom feature an actual sit-down bar? My advice to would-be Western
barmen in Korea: Take out some of the tables and put in a bar,
complete with that singularly Western touch, the barstool. The space
created by having fewer tables will provide room to mingle with
strangers (another Western eccentricity) and will dramatically
increase the comfort level of people who would have been seated
beneath the dartboard. If there is no dartboard, get one. And keep
in mind that very few bars in North America have full-size cutouts
of John Wayne and Marilyn Monroe on the walls. These may be safely
removed.
Born in 1971, plus the
subsequent 29 years, somehow equals an age of 30 in Korea. I
protest, "No, please, I'm still only twenty nine." A year of
my life just vanished when I came here. As a consolation, I learned
that I gained one too: the nine months (let's call it a year) I
spent incubating inside mom. It's an interesting idea, but I still
feel it shouldn't count because I was attached umbilically to my
mother and still incapable of independent life. But then, if we
begin counting life only after independence from our mothers, that
would make me roughly four years old. To make matters worse, some of
my best friends have not yet been born. Maybe the Korean way is
right and think of all the money I'd save on birthday cards to my
unborn friends! It's still an unsettling thought that I was 28 years
old for only four months. But I think I crammed a lot of living into
that short year; I had just moved to Korea, and I had a lot to
learn.
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