“You’re doing
what?” Libby had been my best friend for
years, so naturally she was the first person I told about the success of my
interview.
“I’m going to
teach English in Korea.”
“But you’ve never
been out of the country before,” she looked at me incredulously, as if I had
told her that I was turning myself into a leprechaun.
“So?” If anything,
wasn’t that more of a motive to accept the job as opposed to a reason to turn
it down? If I had already been overseas,
perhaps my desire to go wouldn’t have been as intense. After all, interest often slackens when
things become familiar – didn’t they?.
It is the unknown that tends to heighten one’s curiosity.
“Most people start
out with a ten day trial trip to Italy;
they don’t on whim sign a contract that commits them to Korea for a year.”
“It isn’t a whim,”
I insisted. Whim implies fleeting and
traveling is something I had wanted to do for years. “You know how badly I have wanted to travel.”
“What if you hate
it?” She was looking at it rationally,
something I was completely incapable of doing.
Perhaps if the decision hadn’t already been made years before the job
had been offered I would have been more prone towards listening to logic, but
as far as I was concerned, nothing was going to prevent me from boarding a
plane on the first of August.
“It’s only a
year.”
“Twelve months is
a long time to be miserable.”
“Or an extremely
short amount time in which to be happy.”
“And what did you
say the school’s name is?” She sat down on my bed in my dorm room and reached
for the folder that contained all of my paperwork.
“Wonderland.” I too laughed at the name when I first heard
it, and questioned its legitimacy.
Wonderland. It sounded too
simplistic, too childish, to be much more than a hoax, but Steve had done his
research. There were Wonderland
Academies all over Korea.
“Will Alice be your
principal?” She chuckled at her own
joke.
“Very funny. I know the name is corny, and it’s not
exactly the sort of job that makes other people envious, but it is a job-”
“And that’s all it
is,” her eyes sought mine and pinned them to her own. “Don’t you want more out of life?”
“Do you think you
are my father?” My eyes were cold,
expressionless. If it wasn’t my room we
were sitting in I would have walked out.
I was angry, resentful that she could not think of one kind word to
say. It wasn’t until a couple of years
later, shortly after her funeral, that I realized the complexity of her own
inner emotions. She wasn’t begrudging me
happiness, nor was she genuinely critical.
It was an element of envy and a sense of abandonment that had crept into
her sentiments. We had been friends for
ten years, and since she was a year my senior I had been the one to follow her
first to high school and then to university.
Now I was breaking the pattern.
She was attending grad school up in Boston, and when I graduated, instead of
heading north to join her, I would be flying - and in a sense fleeing - west
away from her. My decision had nothing
to do with her, nothing to do with our relationship, but sometimes our most
genuine emotions are too difficult to confront, and it is easier to lash out at
someone else than it is to acknowledge the pain of an impending loss.
“I am happy for
you.” She tried to insist, but at the
time I didn’t believe her. “I’m happy
you’re getting to go overseas, but have you given much thought to what you
might do when you get back?”
Not wanting to
think that far in advance, I had intentionally avoided meditating on it. I shook my head, “I’ll have a year to think
about it.” And in that context, a year
certainly did not seem long enough. It
was true I could have an epiphany by Christmas, but odds were a year would pass
and I’d still be as confused as I was at that moment.
“You can’t spend
your life running away, eventually you’ll run out of places to go.”
“I’m not running,”
of that I was very insistent. Why was it
so difficult for others to comprehend that my desire was not to run, but to see
and explore? “There isn’t anything I’m
trying to get away from.” Didn’t running
away imply a need to remove oneself from a situation they found deplorable or
unpleasant?
“Yes there is,” a
smug smile was etched across her face; the look of a woman who knew more than
she wanted to share.
“And what might
that be.”
“Reality.”
“I’m not
following.” What did reality have to do
with my decision?
“You don’t have
to, but just keep in mind that someday you will need to acknowledge your
existence in the real world.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that you
will eventually need to settle down with a normal 9-5 job like the rest of us.”
“And if I don’t.”
“You can’t
eternally procrastinate the inevitable; you can’t completely prevent it from
happening because eventually it will. No
matter how hard you fight against it, there will come a time where even you
will grow old.”
“Not if I don’t
want to.”
“In twenty years
we’ll talk and see how much has changed.”
In some ways she was right, but we will never have that conversation,
because twenty-seven months after she made the declaration she was dead. And now, nearly twenty years later, I wonder
how things could have been different.
How could I have ended up somewhere other than where I am? The mistake was not in going to Korea, perhaps
the mistake was in coming home.
Saying goodbye to
my parents at the airport was a tearful event.
My mother broke down first, tears coursing down her cheeks. We hugged each other goodbye – long linger
hugs - and I promised to write and call often.
This was 1996 so there was no Skype, which might have made the parting a
little easier. Saying goodbye is never
easy, but it might not have been so hard if I could have seen the people I was
saying goodbye to once in awhile. At least
I’d be able to write, and I had a new computer that my parents had given me for
graduation, if all went well I’d be able to connect online and send
emails. I held my emotions in check
until I had to pass through security, the point of no return. As soon as I stepped through the x-ray
machine and turned around to wave one last goodbye, tears exploded out of my
eyes and I felt a moment of isolation, loneliness and dread. What if I had made a mistake? I had never gone an entire year without
seeing my family. What if the missing
became too great? Suddenly a year that
only a day earlier seemed like nothing more than an experiment in adventure and
fun, stretched out before me like an eternity.
How could I completely have fun if my heart was full of missing? Walking backwards, with my carryon bag
strapped to my shoulder, I waved until I could no longer see my parents. Then I turned around and tried to focus on
what was in front of me, but my mind refused to cooperate. A problem, I realize now as I look back on
the last two decades of my life, that seems to have tripped me up more than
anything else. I have perpetually made
it impossible for myself to live in and enjoy the present moment, caught up as
I am in where I am not or worse, where I should be instead. I tend to dwell on
what I am missing instead of indulging in what I am experiencing, wondering
constantly if I should have done things differently, a bad habit that has bred
way too much regret.
I remember very
little about flight aside Steve’s excitement.
He had done his homework very methodically and enthusiastically, mapping
out everything there was to see and do in Seoul, the city we would learn to
call home – at least temporarily. I hadn’t done any research whatsoever. The only thing I knew about Korea was that a
war had been fought there more than forty years earlier and the Olympics had
been held in the capital my freshman year in high school. But it wasn’t just Korea; it was the world
that I was ignorant about. Incredible
that I could graduate from one of America’s top universities and know virtually
nothing about the world in which I lived.
Of course, I didn’t realize this as I was waiting anxiously for the
flight that would carry me half way across the globe, but over the next several
months I would become acutely aware of it.
Never again, would I get on a plane bound for a foreign land without any
knowledge of where I would go, what I would do or what I would see. Twenty-one years of life had trained me just
to show up, and that’s exactly what I was doing, that’s all I really knew how
to do. But this trip, if nothing else,
would train me to be far more competent at least when it came to traveling.
I can’t even tell
you what I did on the plane, except sleep.
Steve did some more reading about the history and culture of Korea. He
was ready to hit the ground running and could barely contain his energy on the
plane. He had even started trying to
learn a few basic sentences in order to communicate upon his arrival. I took one look at the strange angular letters
with a few circles thrown in and felt totally discouraged. I couldn’t even learn French in high school
or Italian in college and those languages at least used the same alphabet that
we did. There was no way I was every going to break
through the language barrier. I may have
watched a movie on the plane or read a book but the fact that I have no
recollection of a specific title makes me question whether or not I read
anything. My memory is imperfect – some things
I remember as crisply as if they happened only a moment ago, others vanish like
wisps of smoke.
We had a stop-over
in Alaska in what seemed like the middle of the night, but with the traveling
and time change I’m not really sure what time we were there. I vaguely remember a gift shop filled with
Eskimo and Indian crafts and goods, but it was closed so I couldn’t kill time
browsing, all I could do was peek into the dark window. I found a spot on the floor, rested my back
against a wall and continued my nap until we were called to re-board the plane.
It was dawn when we
finally touched down at Gimpo Airport in Seoul.
In the years since I first landed in Korea, a larger international
airport has been built in Incheon.
Gimpo, still the second largest airport in Korea, now services mostly
domestic flights along with a few international flights to China, Japan and
Taiwan. However, twenty years ago Gimpo was the main international hub in Korea
and the very first foreign airport I ever stepped foot in. Now I think I could land anywhere in the
world with a degree of confidence, knowing full well that I have the ability to
navigate my way in cities, suburbs and countrysides, finding places to stay,
places to eat and mountains to hike.
Back then I was a different person, doubtful that I could even find my
way to cab. Anxiety, unlike any I had
ever experienced began gnawing at the lining of my stomach. How would I survive in a world so far away
from home?
After a brutally
long red-eye flight, I was tired and hungry which made me more than just a
little cranky. I tried not to show it,
but when we stepped through customs into a crowd of strangers and didn’t see a
single sign with Wonderland written on it I found it impossible to suppress my
irritation.
“Where are they?”
I snapped at Steve because he was the only I knew.
“They’ll be here,”
he tried to sound calm, but I could tell by the way he kept standing on his
toes and scanning the crowd that he wasn’t convinced.
What if Libby had
be right? What if it was some sort of
scam. I mean really, Wonderland, what
kind of name was that for a school. But if it was a scam wouldn’t they have
tried harder to come up with a more serious name. Wonderland – it did have the sound of a joke.
But Steve had assured me it was a legitimate company. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so trusting,
maybe I should have done some research of my own.
“I’m going to
call,” Steve took a notebook in which had had written what he perceived to be
valuable information. How he was going
to make a call when no one spoke English I didn’t ask. He was gone for a good ten minutes while I
continued to pace the floor trying not to look desperate or out of place, but
seriously, it was kind of hard considering I was the only white girl
around. It seemed all eyes were staring
at me, ogling at the white face in the crowd.
It made me feel incredibly uncomfortable. I missed New York, and the ease with which I,
anyone really, could slip into anonymity.
There would be none of that in Korea where Americans, I would soon learn,
were either loved or hated depending on where you where and who you were talking
to. Americans did not have the best of
reputations abroad, and in time I would learn why and quickly move to amend my
own glaringly obnoxious ways.
“The van picking
us up broke down,” Steve returned, smiling triumphantly. “Someone will be here shortly.”
Within seconds of
him assuring me that all would be well, a young man in his early twenties timidly
walked up to us holding a sign with Steve’s name on it. He was tall and skittish, as if his own
shadow could give him a terrible fright. Approaching us he nodded a hello, then
without looking either of us in the eye, he pointed to the sign calling our
attention to the American name. Steve
bubbling over with anticipation tried out the few sentences he had memorized,
but either his accent rendered his words unintelligible or he had remembered
them incorrectly because his attempt at conversation was met with total
silence. The Korean man took one bag
from me and one from Steve and then led us out to the parking lot. We were the only foreigners picked up that
day so we had plenty of room to stretch out on the seats.
As the city passed
by outside the window I struggled to keep my eyes open. So this is Korea, I repeated to myself over
and over again as if somehow expecting it to be different. I’m not really sure what I expected, except
to say that I thought I would have an immediate feeling of being different
myself simply because I was in a different place and that didn’t happen. Sure it would happen over time, but in those
first few moments I felt no different than I had in New York. Seoul, as viewed through the windows of the
van, was just another big city, like all the American cities I had
visited. Cars clogged the roads during
rush hour, tall apartment buildings reached up into the sky, and a river – the Han
River - bisected the city. But a moving
vehicle, while often my first introduction to a new place, is a pretty poor
introduction. Walking and mingling is a
much better way to get an appropriate feel for somewhere new. Walking – something I would do an awful lot
of over the next twelve months.
Today,
I can still see the office where we sat our very first morning in Seoul as clearly as I can
see the cars on the street, the people rushing passed and the empty can of
coffee in my hand. For a brief moment I
am permitted to vacate the present and slip soundlessly into the past. Steve is sitting beside me, excitement
masking his fatigue so he appears less travel weary than I feel. Dave, the American liaison, the man
indirectly responsible for us, is shaking my hand, introducing himself and
welcoming us to Korea,
“An-yang-ha-say-oh.” Initially the word
is nothing more than a string of nonsense syllables, but once it is translated
I repeat it half a dozen times to myself not wanting forget how to say hello. Though I felt defeated earlier, back home,
when I tried to learn a little Korean, after hearing just a few words, I feel my
desire to learn rejuvenated. The words
sound harsh and guttural in my ear, but if I am going to live here than I need
to dedicate myself to learning how to communicate. Silently, I vow to myself that I will make a
concerted effort to learn Korean, but my attempt, while valiant, will end
bitterly in defeat.
“You
must be hungry,” Dave looks at his watch – 8 am. Hunger is a logical assumption.
“I
am famished,” I answer without looking at Steve. For a question so simple, there is no reason
to take his lead, besides if I don’t eat something I won’t be able to concentrate
on anything else.
“Can
we go to the bakery, or is there something else you might prefer?” Our plane had landed just over an hour ago,
we hadn’t been there long enough to be picky about much of anything.
“That’s
fine with me,” I glance over at Steve, but only after I have responded.
“Sure.” When Steve speaks I am uncertain as to
whether he is addressing me or Dave, but it doesn’t matter. We will be getting food, and once my stomach
is satisfied I have little doubt that I will be in a much better frame of mind.
We
leave our things – all that we have brought with us, all that we will need for
the next twelve months - in the office.
Stepping outside I am accosted by the oppressive humidity. It is already 90 degrees, but the humidity
makes it feel closer to one hundred. Smog
also heavily blankets the city and smog plus humidity makes breathing slightly difficult. Even though I grew up in a big city and frequently
ran through the streets of New York, inhaling exhaust as I went, my lungs have difficulty
adjusting to the air in Seoul. It feels
heavier, harsher and already I am looking forward to one of those trips to the
mountains Steve promised me.
I am wearing long pants – way too oppressive in
the heat - because my mother thought pants would make a better first impression
than shorts, and a polo shirt because I complained that it would be too hot to
wear anything else. I’m not exactly sure
how I can make a good impression when my clothes are wrinkled from a long
journey and sweaty from the heat. Steve is in shorts and he rolls the sleeves
of his tee-shirt up to his shoulders.
We
are downtown in the center of Soul, traffic clogs the street, but I see very
few pedestrians. I am conscious of the
fact that I am in a foreign country, but only because I keep reminding myself
that I am no longer home. Reality,
however, has not yet set in, nor have I completely internalized the fact that
an ocean now separates me from my family.
When night settles over the city I will not be returning to my parents’
house for dinner, and in a month, when I celebrate my birthday, for the first
time in my life, I will be celebrating it alone, without an ice-cream cake and
with no one to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me.
For some reason, at the time, this all seems very abstract. Odd, how now there are days when I look back
that it still seems not quite real. Was
it ever real? Did I really live in
Korea, or was just a good dream?
There
is nothing in the bakery that looks familiar – no butter cakes, no cinnamon
rolls, no turnovers, no crumb cakes. I
take my time wandering around, looking for something appealing, but nothing
presents itself as being appetizing.
Corn, I can tell, is popular. It
is sprinkled on many of the baked goods, but since I am only a fan of corn
before it leaves the cob, I am not tempted to taste anything of which it is a
part. Meat, hotdogs especially, are also
common. They have been wrapped up to
appear as though they are sleeping snuggly in a blanket, but having detested
hot dogs ever since childhood, my decision about them is not a difficult one. Miniature pizza, or something dressed up to
poorly imitate it, also catches my attention.
At home I love pizza, but my mother is Italian and I have been raised to
be somewhat of a pizza snob. I do not
need to taste it to know that I will not like it. Steve has already selected one of everything
I have dismissed as unappealing, so not wanting to hold him up I select two
plain sticky rolls. I am not expecting
much, but even if they are bland they should at least take the edge off my
hunger.
“I
don’t know if the two of you drink coffee.” I turn to Dave and see that he is
holding six small cans of Nestle coffee, “But if you do, this is just about the
best that you are going to find around here.”
Not
knowing any better, and having no reason not to believe him, I accept the cans
he offers me. “The funny thing about it
is that you will complain about it here,” Dave cracks open a can for himself
and takes a long sip. “But once you go back home, you’ll find yourself seeking
it out every time you are in a Korean neighborhood.”
The
overly sweet and rather weak liquid washes over my tongue and I struggle to swallow
it. Yuck! “I doubt it,” one taste is enough to turn me
off, but when I turn to Steve he is already opening the second can. Apparently, he doesn’t find it as awful as I
do or maybe he was just really thirsty.
“You
say that now, just as you will say a lot of things,” Dave finishes the rest of
his can and pitches it into a rubbish bin on the street, “but trust me, this
coffee and kimchi will get under your skin.
Ten years from now you will drink it for no other reason than because
you are drinking it today - because it will remind you of this moment, this
country and this experience.” At the
time I scoffed at his words. The coffee
was vile. Why, when I was finally home again, surrounded by much more flavorful
options, would I ever even entertain the idea of buying something my taste buds
labeled disgusting? But as much as I
hate to admit it, he was right. I can
not go into a Korean market and not walk out with can of coffee, because all I
have to do is close my eyes, take a sip, and for a moment I am transported back
in time to place filled with so many happy memories.
Statues at Kyongbok Palace
Roof in Kyongbok Palace Complex
Downtown Seoul - Second building from right housed
Wonderland's Central Office
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