Travel, Teach, Live in Korea
After the last bell announced the end of school at 2100 hours on Friday night, I walked down the steps of the entrance to the school smack into the street to follow my usual route to the apartment. The young South African teacher who will be leaving the school in about a fortnight's time was on the street waiting for me. He asked if I wanted something to eat; only in dire emergencies will I turn down an offer to eat. I followed him to a sparkling restaurant that is a favorite of his. Shoes removed at the entrance, sit on the floor at the table, enjoy the company of an intelligent and helpful colleague. I learned how to properly eat with chopsticks and was happy about that as in the past I usually sent some varied morsel into orbit when I, with Herculean effort, would cross the chopsticks in a vain attempt to actually eat.
When my colleague's girlfriend arrived at the restaurant the discussion became interesting, at least to me. My being the only American, currently, at the school makes me the encyclopedia of all things American. Not so, not so, I protest. Like America, different regions in South Korea enjoy different accents with the spoken word.
When asked about foreigners visiting America I related the story of my first night going to my apartment after my first day teaching in Suncheon. I was still suffering from jet lag and didn't pay attention to the fact I entered the wrong area of the massive apartment complex. I dutifully pushed the elevator button for the ninth floor and was a bit surprised to find my front door had moved from its original location. Undeterred, I put my key into the lock without success....no, I looked and the number on the door didn't match at all. Truly, I was that dizzy with fatigue. I walked down the hall a short distance when I turned and saw a woman's head looking around the now open door of what I thought was my apartment. She didn't know English, and I certainly didn't speak the native tongue. I did have the presence of mind to retrieve the paper from my wallet that had my apartment information. She clicked her tongue, turned into the apartment and spoke a few words. Her two elementary school aged daughters, who spoke English, escorted me to the very spot I had hoped. Yes, of course, they thought it funny, yet I was grateful for the expressed kindness and generosity.
In the United States, in a city of comparable size, a lost and dazed foreigner late at night mistakenly trying to enter the wrong house, more likely than not, might just endure a similar fate as that Japanese man did some years back. It is the difference between living in a culture of fear as opposed to living in a culture of expectations, high hopes, and education. No society, no culture is supreme; it is what it is. However, I do enjoy walking in a city without having to look over my shoulder.
Shortly thereafter we finished dinner, bade a sated farewell to one another and left for our respective homes.
