Old News

After growing up in Indiana (essentially a cornfield with cows and, also, Gary), living in the city is a big change. No grass is probably the worst part, closely followed by the odd ways my apartment smells based on the foods other people cook.[1] But the best part—unequivocally—is the subway.

I have a thing for public transportation.

Of course, I miss the freedom of driving—blasting the music, rolling the windows down, taking speed bumps far too quickly, and so on—but I am happy to leave behind the gas prices, handicapped drivers, and the hassle of finding a parking space on Calvin’s miniscule campus.

But the best part? I now have hours of forced reading/studying/people-watching time.

Some of my best studying gets done on the subway. Today I covered 30 verbs in the past and present-continuous (-ing) forms on my way to Bible study. On the way back, I stared at people (surreptitiously, of course) and decided that people are at their most beautiful on the subway.

Maybe it’s because everything is so stark white and silver, metallic and plastic that humans stick out from such sterility merely by breathing and blinking and being alive—by being anything but clinical.

Or maybe I just love subways so much that I wax nostalgic. Either way, I also have some great epiphanies while confined to that narrow tube. Today’s?

I—me, Elaine Schnabel, the girl who would only wear dresses in first grade and never left my mom’s side when she came on field trips and is still scared to go into our basement by myself—I am in Korea.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Old news, but it still surprises me. Maybe it always will.

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[1] And because I can’t put my smelly cleats in the garage. The temporary solution is the purgatory space between the window screen and the glass panel that actually separates my room from the chilly Yeongdo winds. Yeongdo rains are problematic, however.

Parts is Parts: A 찜질방 Experience

This is not a jjimjilbang. It is a
mountain with me doing a half-lotus.

I have a new favorite part of Korea. It used to be the movie posters I can get for free at every movie theatre closely followed by hotteok 호떡[1]. But now, it is the jjimjilbang 찜질방, or Korean spa. The veteran readers among you will recognize the 방 character which designates “room.” The 찜질 denotes “heated baths.” The Japanese nerds among you will recognize these as the Korean version of the Japanese hot springs, called onsen 温泉.

Now, a little 찜질방 101: there’s a naked part and a not naked part and a corresponding sex-segregated part and a co-ed part. The naked part includes the natural spring spas and the actual bathhouse part of it. Awesome. The co-ed part—in which you wear baggy shorts and tunic[2]--includes everything else: saunas, footbaths, tv rooms and, though you have to pay a little extra, massages, nail treatment, and restaurants. The basic fee is only 12,000 won (roughly $12) for four hours of complete relaxation.

This is also not a jjimjilbbang but a
cracked-out notebook I found.

First were the footbaths which are shallow pools of water at about 40 C for people wading. Not that cool, except it’s outside on a patio and it almost—almost!—feels like you’re completely out of the city and your feet are warm enough that you can sit comfortably in the night air. Next were the saunas. Spaland (the 찜질방 I went to) has 13 saunas, all set at varying temperatures with varying themes. One is an Egyptian pyramid, another a Roman bathhouse, another has bamboo walls and vibrations running through the floor. Very neat and very sweaty. 

Then there’s the naked part.

“Parts is parts,” my dad used to say, I can only assume quoting some ancient Schnabel Family Proverb. Other famous Schnabel Proverbs include “There’s always room for dessert” and “Sing at the table, and you’ll marry a crazy man.” Both of those are used around the kitchen table, obviously and are used with some ubiquity, but “parts is parts” is a rarely heard and much more difficult Schnabel Proverb to use in an appropriate context.

Excerpt from my incredibly helpful Korean
textbook. Delicious.

And the naked part of 찜질방s is a most appropriate context I think I’ve ever found. It’s also the best part of SpaLand (as long as you’re okay with naked and obviously, with a family adage of “parts is parts,” I am). Pools range from 19 degrees Celsius (that’s cold for those of you of a Fahrenheit persuasion) up to 40 C. The pool outside—with a waterfall, trees, and walls high enough that you really can believe you’re not in the city anymore—was like something from a resort magazine.[3]

Back inside, you can sit in the 70 degree C sauna and watch Korean sports news with naked old ladies and then dip back into the freezing 19 degree pool before soaping up, rinsing off, and calling it the most relaxing night of your life.

Thanks, Korea.

p.s. I don't have any idea what's with this random white hilighting, so I hope you'll excuse it. It's driving me up the wall.

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[1] Fried donuts with goop and seeds in them. I don’t want you to know how good they are because the line in Napo at the best street vendor’s is always too long anyway.

[2] Growing up on fantasy books, I’ve always wanted to be able to use this word in a legitimate context. Yet another reason to love the 찜질방.

[3] I wanted to say “something out of a Korean drama” but I realize I still haven’t written about them much and you will have no idea what I’m talking about. Soon and very soon.

A Country of Scholarly Gentlemen

This was yesterday’s post, but I couldn’t be bothered to write it yesterday because after a day[1] of wrestling with Excel—some people were not born to constrict their lives into a spreadsheet! Freedom!—I was busy treating myself to seven full hours of Korean dramas.

Busy, I tell you. It’s finals week, after all, and what better way to celebrate these holy days than by staying up irresponsibly late doing things that have nothing to do with finals?

I did, however, do teachery things yesterday morning. For Global Conversation class, each student is forced to endure a five minute conversation with their professor. Child abuse, some might call it, but in response, we people on the Korean peninsula say 참아 [2](cha-ma). So for three hours, I had about 45 students tromping n and out of my office with such rapid-fire frequency I had time only to blin, circle scores, and 참아, 참아, 참아.[3]

Who knew enduring could be so enjoyable?

Henry is a bespectacled boy who has two expressions: the Korean Stare and Chuckling Face. He is stockier than most Koreans, a hard worker, and not particularly good at English. He and Tom were partners for their speaking final. Tom is the Korean Harry Potter.

Me: Okay, Henry, what will you do over winter vacation?

Henry: (enthused) I will go to Jeju-do!

Me: Won’t it be cold?

Henry: No! Korean stare face.

Me: Skeptical face.

Henry: Because I am a man! Chuckling face.

Iris wears heavy eye make-up and wears her hair like Uma Thurman as Mia Wallace in Pulp Fiction. She blinks a lot, pouts, and tilts her head to one side when I talk to her.

“Iris, who do you think is more polite: Americans or Koreans?”

Blink blink. Pout.

“I think Americans are more polite.”

“Really? Why?”
Blink. Blink. Pout. Tiiiiilt.

“They are so handsome.”

But aside from Iris who—based on my superior teaching instincts—might not have understood the question, most of the kids said Koreans are politer.

Me: Why?

Tom: Because Koreans are…old people. Um…looks at Henry. Koreans are like…

Henry: helpful *shouts angry-sounding Korean words*

Me: confused

Tom: No, no! Old people!

Henry: Oh. 그리고…

Tom: Because we are nice to old people and we say…polite to them. We call them by honor names.

~

Me: Why?

Rachel: Um…Here! Cookies for you, teacher!

Me: Cool! *snarf*

Sidenote: they were so delicious you would have given her extra points, too.

~

Me: Why?

Marine: Because Korean people…they are so…we bow and…I’m so sorry. I can’t focus because my teacher is so beautiful.

Me: hyuk, hyuk.

~

Me: Why?

Sally: Because Koreans are the polite people of the east Asia.

Me: Oh, I see.

~

Me: Why?

Cindy: Because of…동방예의지국. Do you know동방예의지국?

Me: No.

Cindy: Hmm. Okay. She writes it down. Internet.

~

Internet, turns out, or more specifically, Wikipedia, is a goldmine about동방예의지국. In Romanized form it’s dongbang yeui jiguk and its one of many nicknames for Korea meaning exactly what Sally said: the country of courteous people in the east.

Other names for Korea include

백의민족(Baeguiminjok): "The white-clad people"

계림 Gyerim  "Rooster Forest"

And, my personal favorite:

군자지국Gunjajiguk, "Country of Scholarly Gentlemen".

Rock on, Korea.

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[1] Okay, 30 minutes.

[2] “Endure.” Hanna says I’m using it wrong, that참아 can only be used when referring to conflict between people, but who reads footnotes?

[3] Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!

A Love Letter

I hate you, writing. Hate, hate, hate.

I’ve never met anything or anyone who could make me feel quite so insignificant. So inadequate. I could write all day every day and only produce two sentences worth anything—if I’m lucky. I used to think I was consistent before I met you. I used to be content with my ability to work through problem (or creatively side-step said problem). I used to approach my keyboard with a sense of confidence and happy expectancy.

Like a dragon licking its lips before it roasts a marshmallow to perfection with a delicate blast of flame.

But you are a jerk. You force me to sit for hours, fingers still on the keys, eyes staring blankly at the screen. You make me lost. You make me repeat myself. You make me use the dumbest clichés. You make me pissy and mopey and ten kinds of frustrated. You make me look like an idiot.

Like a dragon scared to fly, allergic to fire, and unable to fit into its scales. Or something. You could said it better.

But do you know why I really hate you? Of course you do, you jerk. Because without you, I can't say

A Double Post

Also, I fear sea captains and being thrown into the ocean and eaten
by sharks.

I dislike being the outsider. I dislike not fitting in and that feeling of walking on ice, hoping to pass for someone who ought to be there. I hate being alone; I fear it worse than most things[1]. Fear is probably why I’m a Christian—not fear of Hell or God or judgment, as it ought to be, but fear of having to go it alone.

Then again, I hear tell that’s what Hell is—eternal separation from God and therefore from everything and everyone. Hell is loneliness.

When I think about the times I’ve felt alone, it doesn’t seem like an unreasonable belief. Being third wheel is pretty awful and being the new kid in town is worse. Korea has its moments, too. Sometimes at the beginning of a class when all 52 students are ignoring me and jabbering in Korean, I think Goodness, I could start talking about practically anything, and no one would understand—even if they bothered to listen.

Not a great feeling. Luckily, it’s not one I feel very often here in my post-pubescent days. I have an overabundance of confidence and I’m generally secure about finding my place. But there are exceptions to every rule.

I’ve never gotten the hang of soccer, in a social way. Pretty early on I understood the whole passing thing, and the don’t use your hands thing, and even the off-sides thing clicked before I was ten. But I have never—never, during all my nearly 20 years of soccer playing—figured out how to relax like a proper jock while kicking a soccer ball around.

Consequently, the joy of soccer has always come with a huge opportunity cost: awkward loneliness in left midfield. Most days, I’m okay with awkward, because of how beautiful the sport is and how inexplicably joyful passing, dribbling, shooting, and defending make me feel. Most days I’m willing to pay it, but not today.

Glad that’s out of my system. Now, because I hate sounding like Harry Potter in The Order of the Phoenix, here’s part two of this post. Here’s why not today:

I would rather...

...hear an entire opera sung at two very slightly different pitches

...read the Epic of Gilgamesh for the eighteenth time

...listen to an hour-long sermon about how women should learn in silence and full submission.

...watch a silver Solstice get smashed up by a Hummer

...smell whatever my downstairs neighbor cooks in the lining of all my clothes for the rest of my life

...have every single one of my students use the word “fastly” instead of “quickly;” misuse “good” and “well;” use articles at random and just as randomly not use them; confuse there, their, they’re and your and you’re at every possible, maddening opportunity. In short, I would rather hear people wildly butcher the English language

...than have to watch and be a part of lazy soccer.

Maybe that makes me a terrible English teacher but, lazy soccer is boring. Half-assed defending, passing, and moving all for the sake of one cool move or a too-high shot makes for the dullest game on earth. Bad soccer like this is—and I am freely admitting this without anyone aiming a gun or 6-iron at my head—worse than golf.

I get it. Really. I understand that there are very, very few people possessing an iota of the competitive drive that I have. Nor are there myriads of soccer players diseased with the perfectionism that plagues me. So it makes sense that for that enormous majority, playing soccer isn’t always about precision and speed and intelligent passing patterns, but more about hanging out with friends and goofing around.

The Little Prince and his rose and me. Nevermind - third wheel's kinda fun!

I get it. Really. Except I don’t. I missed something—probably somewhere in middle school or high school when I was reading books about mice with swords—I missed something about how to have fun the way jocks have fun. And it’s even harder when everyone else is speaking Korean. They could all be making horribly racist, sexist jokes about me and I would have no idea. Not that I think it would happen, but it’s a pretty lonely realization to have.

On Sunday, a friend and I were walking on Haeundae beach and we saw this sand structure (pictured above). It was such a perfect rendition of the Little Prince—so meticulously done and exquisitely proportioned. As we walked away, I looked behind me just in time to see some little kid kick the sand Little Prince. The Little Prince’s boot sprayed back into nothing but sand and the sculpture was marred. I felt wounded. If you’ve read the book, I think you’ll understand.[2]

That’s what lazy soccer is like to me: watching some little kid destroy something whole and perfect for ninety minutes. It’s awful, and it is way worse than “fastly.” Sorry, Grammar Nazis.

I know where my loyalties lie.

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[1] Snakes being a huge and ever-present exception.

[2] For the Harry Potter nuts out there, I can’t help but compare this to killing a unicorn. Remember the first book?

Teaching Lessons

Update: Minhee smiles sometimes!

As the semester draws to a close, I’ve begun to evaluate what worked and what didn’t. It’s amazing how many lessons I learned every single day I taught. Here are the very few I remember:

1.      Any class can take an unexpected 180. And a 360.

2.      Bring energy.

3.      And a pencil. And a time-keeping device of some kind.

4.      All the homework you assign comes back and you have to grade it.

5.      Speak slower. Always.

6.      Repeat yourself two or three times.

7.      Repeat. Yourself. Two. *show* or three *show* times. *write it on the board*

8.      Visuals are helpful.

9.      Don’t use words like “visuals.”

10.  Do not use contractions.

11.  R’s are l’s, and you teach “Grobal Engrish.”

12.  “I don’t know; I’ll look it up” is a perfectly acceptable answer.

13.  Have water on hand.

14.  Talk less; make them do the work.

15.  Laugh a lot.

16.  Smile more.

17.  Provide incentive—free homework passes are the new hotcakes.

18.  Have sticky notes with you—because there will be students who need to make an appointment, give an excuse for an absence, or require a copy of last week’s assignment.

19.  They love it when you act things out.

21.  One smile out of twenty is worth it.

We go to the coffee shop sometimes to grade. And not grade.

I like to think I have a couple new tricks up my sleeves for next semester, but who knows. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about teaching, it’s that you have to think on your feet. It’s not even just about fielding the questions:

“Teacher, what’s the difference between ‘quickly’ and ‘fastly’?”

“Professor Elaine, what does it mean to ‘fall behind’?”

“What does it mean when two people say they are living together?”[1]

The rigors of grading are softened by strawberry milkshakes.

It’s about fielding people, and people are crazily unpredictable. I never know when Joey will show up, for instance. Nor do I know what Linze’s excuse will be for missing class on Tuesday—a gaming convention which will inexplicably boost her resume; four days at the hospital due to an ear infection; her father dying: I’ve had all three this semester.

Who knows if anyone will answer the question I ask? Who knows if anyone understands what I’m saying?

The money might be awful—and the students who absolutely refuse to study might be more frustrating than being unable to close the peanut butter lid with one knife-holding hand since the other one is facilitating the mawing of the sandwich made from said peanut butter—but because of all the mental hopping about, I feel like teaching is about as close to being a ninja as I’ll ever be.

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[1] You laugh, but all three have come up in the last week. And it took a really long time to explain the difference between “going on a date” and “dating,” and then, of course, what you can and can’t assume about two people “living together.”

Decorum

This weekend I watched one of the few American movies to make the jump over the Pacific Pond to my current home. It’s a Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Seth Rogan film called 50/50 about a guy who gets cancer in his twenties. I liked it. It made me laugh and cry and think. Anna Kendrick was brilliant as the hilariously awkward romantic interest, and I’ve always enjoyed Gordon-Levitt’s adorkable comedic timing and charm (“Four angels came out of the sky and they picked up Ed Williams!” Anyone?).

However.

Yay more (unrelated) balls jokes.

For the past few months I’ve been doing just as the good old Christian Reformed Church and Calvin College taught me, and engaging culture. Er, gorging myself on Korean culture, might be more accurate. I’ve been obsessively listening to K-Pop and watching Korean dramas as of late, and therefore learning all about Korean ideas about relationships and romance. In the roughly 30 hour-long episodes of three different dramas I’ve watched, not one single character has mentioned or had sex. It’s all about a kiss, holding her hand, letting her borrow his suit-coat when she’s cold.

50/50 was a good movie, but I’m sick of hearing sentences like, “I fucking nailed that cunt!” and “You could have totally fucked the shit out of that girl” and have it be okay.

It’s not okay.

It’s not okay in real life and it’s not okay in movies.

Korean PDA.

I’m uncomfortable, I’m embarrassed, and it’s not because I’m a prude who thinks sex should be hidden away like grandpa’s yellowing underpants.[1] No, I’m comfortable talking about sex. I think sex should be talked about more—more in schools, more in families, more in churches—but it should be talked about with something resembling respect and maybe a little maturity (why not). 

  

I’m not suggesting the topic shouldn’t be made fun of. I’m not even suggesting we stop using words like “cunt,” “dick,” and “fuck.” English is a potent language; use it to its full potential if you dare and think you’re able. And it’s tough[2] to be clever on such well-traveled ground. Do your best! (As the Korean’s say, “Fighting!” 화이팅—it’s pronounced with an h instead of an f.)

But until Americans are able to treat the subject with at least a little decorum as well as humor, allow me to finish up fastly (as the students are like to put on their tests on Tuesday) and say this:

For now, I’m switching teams. I like the Korean side of things better.

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[1] Or perhaps a more fitting simile would be “like your porn collection,” but isn’t that the point? In our culture, sex needn’t revolve around the things that are dirty.

[2] Believe it or not, I've stopped using the word "hard," because if someone's going to make a sex joke out of what I'm saying, I'd prefer it if they had to work a little.

Way Ahead of You Guys

This is a normal Schnabel Thanksgiving.
JK: this is obvi Christmas. See the snow? Oh, and the old-
time date stamp on the bottom right it pretty good, too.
Let the record show I've grown since then. At least 2 inches.

This morning I thought about all the ways this Thanksgiving was not right. I’ve never had to work before on Thanksgiving, and I was facing two of my least favorite classes and one of my busiest days of the week. Instead of the clink of coffee cups, mom and dad murmurings downstairs, and Gracie’s pitter patter paws downstairs, I heard the people upstairs moving furniture at 7:55.[1] No sister, no fireplace, no football games, no naps.

No mom and dad. That’s big.

That’s a scary first.

Perhaps I’ve always been impressed by the arbitrariness of holiday days because of years in Arizona where Christmas was never as Christmas “should” be. No snow or hot cocoa or whatever it is that makes Christmas feel Christmassy. Perhaps that prepared me for today.

Perhaps I’m finally starting to understand how to be content in all circumstances (though I’m sure my circumstances could become much more difficult than at present). Or perhaps God is providing, like always.

Because I had a GREAT Thanksgiving! Enough introspection! This is how it went down!

With a great many exclamation marks!!!!

With the promise of a morning skype date with my parents!

With Thanksgiving Hand-Turkeys from my students!

With my 500 words of writing a day![2]

With carrots that I boiled all by myself for our potluck dinner![3]

We were, however, sans beagle.

With a great many hugs!

With foreigner friends, with turkey, with mashed potatoes, with gravy, with stuffing, with sweet potatoes[4], with pies[5], with wine, with home-made bread, with laughing, with thanksgiving. With a sort of a family.

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[1] At first I thought my internal alarm clock was just that good. But no, the apartment 402 inhabitants are pushing something heavy (a table? Chairs? An ELEPHANT?!) across their floor every morning at this time.

[2] Writing is a dog’s life, but the only life worth living. (Flaubert)

[3] I am cooking impaired. This is the second thing I’ve made since coming to Korea. The first was a ham sandwich.

[4] Ashley is a genius with sweet potatoes.

[5] Elijah baked like 20 pies this week. Did I mention I boiled carrots?