Chicken Little died from Bird Flu. Taking over the job of incalcitrant apocolyptic doomsayer is...CNN (or as I like to call it, The Suffering Channel).

Somebody please laugh.

Well, since we're on the topic of pathogens, I got to witness my own little epidemic this past week. The title of this week's first blog story: Obsessive-Compulsives Need Not Apply.

Any poultry farmer worth his salt can tell you exactly why schools are breeding grounds for viruses: Too many animals crammed together in too small a space for too much time. A boy came into one of my classes last week with a runny nose (the 17th, if memory serves). By Wednesday of this week the virus was reeking havoc among the students, teachers and staff.

An airborne pathogenlike a flu or cold is an unstoppable assailant: We all have to breath, you know. Complicating matters are the children: picking their noses, sneezing, coughing, failing to wash their hands: All the while sharing school supplies, holding hands, typing and opening doors. Hand a piece of chalk to a student and he'll hand you back a billion genetically-enhanced nanoscopic invaders slavering over the opportunity to turn your lungs into an outtake from The Lord of The Rings. Short of locking sick students in sealed plastic bubbles, there is no stopping an infection once it has walked into ESS.

The trick is to submit to the virus early on. The pathogen gets stronger with each new generation, the symptoms growing more and more severe. Catching the weakest version early on innocolates you to later, more malevolent strains. I caught the virus Friday and suffered some sniffles and a mild sore throat over the weekend. My students coughed, sniffled and sneezed all day Monday. By Wednesday between three and five children were missing from many of my classes, and on Thursday Ha-young had to take the day off to take her own child to the doctor.

Each student in his or her turn caught, fought and beat the virus over the course of a week. By Friday the invisible predator had moved on to hunt lesser prey. Saturday morning I was talking to my mother on the phone and she said everyone she knows in Atlanta has had or currently has a similar cold. She came down with it yesterday. What are the chances it's the same virus? This question seems to haunt any story I read or see about the bird flu. If it jumps to people and is spread like a normal flu...

...

Ah, well, isn't that nice? Lovely day, isn't it? How about a little comedy? It's time for The Korean Minute: Sayings From The Land That Slept Through English Class.

"There is no off-season for friends." (Or bag limit, either. Sweater)

"Global Fashion from Moko Brand are actually easily washable wear and also it can make a moment of rest." (No shit? Washable, you say? Advertisement in Nampo-dong)

Here are this weeks random photos:


This is only the second person I have seen in a wheelchair since arriving in Korea. He wasn't moving. I think he was asleep. People were ignoring him until I raised my camera and took a photograph. Then somebody got their nose out of joint and the clerk from the convenience store came over and shooed me off. Sometimes it feels like the Koreans pretend their disabled, poor and retarded people don't exist. The government certainly doesn't pay anything more than lip-service to the needs of the handicapped. There are few ramps or handicapped facilities. God knows how someone without legs gets to the grocery store. It is one of the few areas of Korean culture that piss me off.


Two clothing boutique clerks struck up a badminton match on the sidewalk outside their shop in Nampo-dong during a break. I photographed them for a few minutes.

And then I realized I had to get to work.


Man, the old people here are so damn cool.


A fortune teller near the theater. She's carved out a little space between a fastfood restaurant and PC-bong and filled it with all the accuitrements of fortune-telling: Flowers, beads, incence, various flags and smiling photos of famous Buddhist monks. For a few thousand won she'll tell you about your future...In Korean. I think I'm going to record her predictions for my life and have my high school kids translate it for a class project.


What can I really say about this photo? Busan street photography.


This guy gave me the best haircut I've had in two years. Cost me three bucks. Language barrier? No problem. Just point out the cut you want from the pictures on the wall. How did I find this place? Easy, just follow the Russians.


Now that the weather has turned colder there are less and less people on the beach at Haeundae. Still, the ocean is mesmerizing in the late afternoon light. The buildings rising behind the girl is where all the rich people in Busan live.


These guys are part of the massive security detail brought in to watch over the APEC meetings starting November 23rd. They took a break from their training to play a little beach soccer.


This old man was just playing the blues on the seawall at Haeundae for anyone who would listen. You can't see them, but he was surrounded by drunks.

OK, onward with the next story.

I usually spend my breaks in the teacher's prep room suiting up for the next murderous onslaught, er, I mean getting prepared for class. The place is usually a madhouse. Each teacher has a tiny wooden desk with a glass deck and a drawer for supplies. Between squeezing past one another we listen to tapes of our students' readings, check their journals, grade papers and plan out our next classes. Some teachers have so many books, journals and material on their desks you can barely see them.

I sit right on the corner next to the beautiful Ms. Ha. When I'm not sweating my next class I'm trying to get in a few words with her or joking around with The SuperKorean (Ms. Kang). More often then not I just end up helping Ms. Ha figure out some random American phrase like 'NASCAR.' Sometimes when things calm down an exchange will end in an eye-opening, perspective-altering exchange.

One such conversation happened Thursday. In a gesture of kindness our director, Mr. Kim, brought a big paper bag of sweets, donuts and sandwiches from Paris Baguette. It's tangerine season, and so In-Hye added a sack of the sweet fruit to the mix. Throughout the day all the teachers snacked on the goodies.

Between bites of sugary goodness I blurted out the Korean word for bread: Bbang (pronounced bah-ng, not bae-ng like an explosion). The SuperKorean giggled and corrected my pronunciation. She then asked Julie what the French called bread. Paen, Julie said. It sounded remarkably like the Korean word, 'Bang,' and I said as much to The SuperKorean.

"Yes. We adopted the word from the French," she said. This baffled me.

"What did they call bread before the French showed up?" I asked innocently. The SuperKorean didn't flinch.

"We didn't have bread until the French came," she said. This really blew my mind. The first thing that popped into my head was the Koreans' current love affair with fast food chains like McDonalds and Outback Steakhouse. It's like every new wave of white people tries to make the Koreans fat. The French failed miserably, maybe McDonalds would too. One can only hope.

Now For The Tale of Two Tae-hyeons.

My worst class is 5-6P. Imagine twenty-two of the most incalcitrant Korean youths thrust into an English academy by their parents in a desparate bid to give them a chance in life and you have 5-6P. They range in age from 10 to 13. They're grasp of English is no better than my youngest children, the 1-2P's. They could give a damn about English, school or me. I don't bother planning for this class. I show up ready to instill fear, play games and little more.

Like any band of outlaws, this group has a natural leader: Tae-hyeon Yi. Only twelve years old, he is the quintessential misfit: Hair askew, clothed in baggy, ragged threads, his face always screwed up into this disturbing scowl punctuated with these dark brown Korean eyes that scream 'fuck you' whenever he looks in my direction. Only thirteen years old, Tae-hyeon Yi stands five foot eight inches high, slightly taller than me and a solid foot taller than the next tallest person in the class.

In the world of children, size is a tanglible source of power. How he or she handles this power reflects upon the child's character. Tae-hyeon Yi makes no effort to be benevolent, chosing instead to exploit those smaller and weaker than he (everyone except the girls. Tae-hyeon is tellingly wary of the opposite sex).

It's strange how people react to a bully. The strong ones avoid Tae-hyeon or chose to fight him instead of submit. He mostly avoids these few individuals. The weaker boys chose to appease Tae-hyeon and exchange their dignity for a reduced allotment of abuse. They are masters at redirecting his attention in my direction. The six or seven boys gather around Tae-hyeon Yi in the back of the classroom like court jesters and make a show of disrespecting me for their general amusement.

5-6P stresses me out, but deep down it doesn't really matter. They're losers. They probably won't realize this until it's too late, but I just can't be bothered. What I do care about is Tae-hyeon. No, not that one.

In the front of the class sits a boy with his head buried in book. His name is Tae-hyeon Kim. Friendless, fragile, small, Tae-hyeon Kim is the smartest child in the class as well as an Untouchable of sorts. Though he is also thirteen years old, Tae-hyeon Kim is a foot shorter and at least twenty kilos lighter than Tae-hyeon Yi. His pimply skin clings to his thin, bony body and his eyes are windows into a lonely, isolated world. He wears his puniness like a scarlet letter. No one in the class will sit anywhere near him, nor help him with the puzzles I hand out. No one talks to him. Tae-hyeon Kim happens to be the smartest boy in the class.

His brilliance and his weakness set up Tae-hyeon Kim to be the ideal target for the larger Tae-hyeon. The thug wastes no opportunity to punish Tae-hyeon Kim for the crime of being helpless and weak. One time I turned around and watched helplessly as he slugged Tae-hyeon Kim in the face. My tone reached a volumn I never thought I could attain: I threw Tae-hyeon out the door with my voice. The class went dead silent. After he left the classroom it took me a few minutes to compose myself. A girl went and got a napkin and I helped wipe the tears from Tae-hyeon Kim's face. Nothing angers me like a bully. I too was once a Tae-hyeon Kim.

I was thrust into a new school fifth grade year to make the commute easier on my folks. I was not a socially adept child. I had a hard time making friends. I was fat. I was short. I was the natural target for a bully named Jonathan Arnold, and he made much of my fifth grade year a decent into hell. What I now find so strange was that Jonathan Arnold was one of only two people I developed a relationship with that terrible, lonely year. It was a violent, abusive relationship, but in some ways he was the only person who made time for me. Bizarre as that sounds, the story got even stranger. The following fall as I was signing up for my sixth grade classes, Jonathan Arnold approached me with his parents and introduced me as his best friend in the whole world. At the time, this baffled me like nothing else possibly could. Now I know better.

The boy I once was hates Tae-hyeon Yi, and the man that boy grew up to be understands that bullies aren't born, they're made. The violence and abuse they turn on other children is only a mirror image of the violence and abuse visited on them by a bigger, meaner person or people, such as a parent. The weakness and fear they hate so much in others is a reflection of that same weakness and fear within themselves. A bully beats other children because it is the only relationship he understands. When I look into Tae-hyeon's eyes I see his hate, his anger, his sadness, and then I also see his fear, his weakness, his own personal nightmarish isolation.

In the end, Tae-hyeon Kim has the strength to heal the wounds inflicted by Tae-hyeon Yi. His brilliant mind will carry him far in life. With time he will forget or learn from these terrible experiences at the hands of a bully, just as I did. Who I worry about is the bully himself. How is Tae-hyeon Yi going to turn out? Who is going to get to the bottom of his rage? Who will be there to catch him when he falls? Is it my job? Should I investigate? Should I alert the authorities? Maybe there is nothing to any of this and it's all just a case of overblown teenage angst. I am living in the dark, glimpsing a life in 45-minute distracted blocks. A lot happens in the remaining twenty-three hours and fifteen minutes that no one sees.

On Friday Mrs. Nam (Ha-young) told me the 5-6P class was cancelled indefinently. I would not have to put up with that abuse any longer. Outwardly, I was exstatic. Inwardly, I my thoughts turned to Tae-hyeon Yi, who I would never see again. I hope he turns out alright.

On the bus to work Thursday I met an Austrailian named Alex. He was teaching at Gosin University and living in Hamjigreen with his wife and children. A nice fellow, he invited me to come to the free language class near Busan Station on Saturday and gave me good directions.

Saturday morning and I showered, dressed and caught the 508 to Busan Station. After a bit of walking I came to the post-office building and caught the elevator with a friendly Russian student named Katya to the 8th floor. People of a variety of races (I saw my third black person!) and nations milled about, drinking green tea and snacking on chips. Katya and I took a seat and made small talk until the start of class.

The program is called Hangul Soetang, and for virtually nothing (3,000 won a month) I get my own personal Korean teacher for two hours every Saturday. This being my first time, I shared my instructor with a Russian violin tutor named Alla. A nice Korean woman and three Koreans student volunteers walked us through the basics: Hello, goodbye, I'm sorry, excuse me, your welcome, thank you, etc.


English was the language we used to broker our educational exchanges. The Koreans spoke in English when they needed to clarify a new phrase. Alla spoke English when she needed to talk to me. The three students picked my brain about English words and phrases that were giving them a hard time. No one was purly a teacher or a student: We were all students of one another, coming from three very different traditions, and English was our playing field. It proved to be an eye-opening experience.

When you meet someone for the first time in Korea, there is a certain phrase you use for saying "How are you?" and it translates almost exactly into just that. However, if you see someone for a second time, you use an entirely different phrase that when translated means something like "Because we once met, I am now happy." Isn't that poetic?

I took the 302 out to Haeundae beach Sunday to see the Busan Aquarium. It's a really nice aquarium. I'd give you all kinds of neat information, facts and figures, but it was all written in Hangul. The only fact I nailed down was the giant acrylic panels that keep the sharks seperated from the tourists is a foot thick.

Most of what I have to report passed before my eyes.






It cost me 15,000 won to get in. The aquarium is right on the beach, so their water source is taken care of. For two hours I was treated to walls lined with blissfully imprisoned sea life. There were fish of all sizes, shapes and colors, crabs, shrimp and even sea otters and penguins. I felt really bad for the penguins. Their tank was barely as big as my apartment and dimly lit in florescent green. Trees were painted on the walls and the ceiling was blue to simulate the sky. That's shitty.

The fish had it much better. The tanks were large and clean and the fish looked healthy. Little kids pressed their snotty noses against the tanks and beat furiously with their fists against the unyielding acrylic. Parents took pictures, and the professional photographer in me noticed that all the main tanks were curved so the direct flash from people's tiny digital cameras wouldn't ruin the photos with too much glare. Good call.

The main attraction was a massive tank filled with giant grouper, seven-foot nurse sharks and rays of all types. Schools of silvery pompano, yellowfins and jacks flashed across the twenty-foot high clear plastic panels. A plexiglass tunnel allowed visitors to tour the inside of the tank. I watched as a beautiful loggerhead turtle as big as my suitcase slid by overhead. It was wonderful.

After a dinner of cheesy dankas I updated this blog for you good folks and made my way to Kaeungsung to attend a Holloween party. I'll write about that at a later date. Peace. --Notes

Alright, it's time for the Korean Newshour with your host, Stephen Jones. Hello from sunny South Korea! Before I got any further here are the newest updates of the Korean T-shirt Files:

"Hyper Fishing Gear" (For fishing really fast. Hat)
"Justifiable Pollack" (Because being Polish is a crime. T-shirt)
"Take a Severe Seating at Second 09" (The punishment for being Polish. T-shirt)
"TNT Yours" (The word 'up' hasn't been invented here yet. T-shirt).

Academically it was an interesting week. I played Rachmaninov's Variations on a Theme by Paginini for my high schoolers. I asked them to write at least five sentences about what images come to mind when they hear the music. I encouraged them to be as creative as possible. For the Koreans, who learn mostly by rote, free-thinking is a bizarre experience. To then take those awkward, spontaneous bursts of creativity and slow them down enough to translate into English must seem like a Hurculean task. They understand the assignment, a few start to doodle while the symphony plays, but most of them stare at their piece of paper as if it were some vast rice patty they have to sow by hand. I write my own thoughts in order to encourage them. I dare not look up for fear of stifling their creativity by making them feel under the microscope of sorts. It turned out alright. Two of the boys in H2 came up with some really neat ideas (none of which I have with me - doh!).

I had an interesting conversation with my teacher co-ordinator (read: boss) last week. For the record, her name is Nam, Ha-young, but we just call her Mrs. Nam. She is this friendly, outgoing woman with a gift for teaching and an excellent grasp of English. She was the person I originally contacted about the job and her mind is a wealth of insights into everything from disciplining children to Korean etiquette.

During a break between classes Friday I struck up a conversation with Mrs. Nam about the 3E2 class (15 year olds) we share. I commented on how hard it is to get the students to stop talking and focus on an activity. Oftentimes they simply ignore me until I am screaming at the top of my lungs for them to pay attention. Mrs. Nam laughed and surprised me when she said it could be worse. They could be well-behaved.

When Mrs. Nam teaches the 3E2 class they are quiet as still water, eyes forward, absolutely motionless, perfect little Korean students. She says their affect is robotic and often times when a student doesn't understand something, they will simply give up trying. "No-ah teachah" they say to her and point to the offensive material. What really came as a surprise was when she pointed to me and said they loved me and my little activities and games.

Slightly confused, I ask if it is the same class. It is. Mrs. Nam, Are you sure? Yes. They love you Stephen, they really do. It isn''t you they are ignoring exactly.

For Most Busanites, English is considered little more than an academic requirement to be fullfilled and forgotten. Though it is considered a cornerstone of a well-rounded education, to most people English is impractical academic drivel. In a lot of ways they are absolutely correct. For most of the residents of Busan, there is simply no reason to be fluent in English. With the handful of resident aliens (like me) scattered throughout the city and the majority of the tourists cooped up in their hotel rooms in Haeundae, there is no earthly reason to be fluent in English. The students planning to study in America, Austrailia or England take it seriously, and many businessmen hire private tutors (highly illegal, actually). However, they make up a tiny slice of the massive human pie called Busan.

The English instruction the children receive is fractured and unfocused. In school they focus on reading and the hagwons specialize mainly in speaking English. The students get little help learning to put their Korean thoughts into written english words. The end result is most people under 25 can make only the most basic conversation with a native English-speaker despite six years of daily instruction.

"In my English classes we focused on vocabular and reading," said Mrs. Nam. "We'd learn hundreds of vocabular words that we'd never use in day-to-day conversation." She said most students become a library of English vocabulary with very little practice applying it. Mrs. Nam earned her English merit badge the only way that truly works: She lived in California for two years.

The end result is a population of young people In Korea who learned english the way I learned trigonometry. I can prattle off all sorts of equations, tangents and imaginary numbers, but I can't design a bridge or calculate the future orbit of Mars. They can read an English book, they can say 'hello' and burn through a vocabulary quiz in a matter of seconds, but they can't tell me how to find the bathroom.

Mrs. Nam told me a story about an encounter she had with a foreigner at a clothing shop earlier that week. The young American strolled into the shop, and in the most basic English possible he asked the clerk if she could point him towards the nearest camera shop. The clerk, a young woman, just stood there gaping at him. He repeated the question, but she was rendered speechless by her education.

Mrs. Nam came to the clerk's rescue and guided the young man to the camera shop. She said that while she talked to the (very relieved) American, people in the store stood and stared at her with an uncomfortable intensity.

"They look right through me," said Mrs. Nam. According to her, this happens whenever she speaks in her near-perfect English with a foreigner. She tried for a few minutes to express her feelings on the subject. All I understood was the it is extremely awkward.

Other Koreans look at Mrs. Nam with a caustic mix of jealousy, curiosity and repulsion. On the one hand, a Korean who speaks English is worldly and highly educated. On the other hand, the alien language emenating from Mrs. Nam's mouth marks her as "one of them," an outsider of sorts, un-Korean. They ostrosize Mrs. Nam with their eyes.

I didn't tell her, but my first impression was this was a manifestation of the strong undercurrent of Korean nationalism. Koreans as a general rule are fervently nationalistic. Koreans are extremely proud of their language, and with ample justification: Hangul is a magnificent language. It is a major piece of their national identity. It is living testiment to their ingenuity, their civic-mindedness and their rich history. Still, there is no reason to ostrosize someone speaking English, especially when that person is encouraging a positive perception of Korea by helping a stranger hopelessly 'lost in translation.'

Every day I am that young man in the clothing store. The scene she painted is extremely familiar to me now. I walk in and say hello in Korean. Ne, ne, annyong haseyo they say back. When I start speaking English the Korean's eyes light up and their mouth goes slack like they know what I am saying but they don't know how to reply. I can almost see them mentally wading through six years of English instruction for the right combination of words that will help this poor dumb American find a shower curtain. No-ah Englishee, no-ah englishee, I am sorry.

Yeah, yeah,I know. Kamsamnida. Annyong-e keseyo.

OK, enough with the lecturing. On to the photos. I spent Sunday wandering around Busan Station and Young-do island, camera in hand. The city's lower middle-class neighborhoods resemble latin America: houses crammed one on top of another hiding behind thick colorful walls laced with thick doors and barbed wire. The city must be a mailman's nightmare: an infinite labrinth of winding alleyways a meter wide draining into a nameless streets that look like they were paved by the ancient Romans. I walked all the way around Young-do through this maze on my hunt for photos. It was cold and most people were indoors. I didn't come away with much photographically, but I got a great calf/glute workout.



There is a Buddhist monastery next to ESS in Nampo-dong. Many days they can be heard wailing as they beat on deep-throated animal skin drums. There is nothing like planning for classes to the ancient, ethereal sound of a Buddhist drum line.



Julie and I went to a nora-bong with a friend Friday night. It's a kareoke bar. The problem with kareoke music is instead of a copy of the original song with the vocals edited out, it's a knock-off. Most of the songs are a pale immitation of the original. If it wasn't for the soju, the cheesy synthesizered version of U2's With or Without You might have bothered my sensibilities (oh shit, I have sensibilities?).



I met a drunk fisherman who had caught a flounder. He let me take a photo of him with it.



And then he handed it to me.



Watch your back while shopping in Nampo-dong. I have been creamed by these guys twice now. Got to stop listening to my iPod while shopping.



The Asia Pacific Economic Conference is going to be held in Busan in November. This is a big ass deal to the Busanites. All the Tigers are going to be here: China, Japan, Taiwan, indonesia...Did I say Japan? The city government has been frantically cleaning up, painting and re-paving everything in sight. The trains are spotless and I actually got on a bus with an automatic transmission yesterday (wow, no motion sickness). The bridge is lined with these bright white and blue APEC flags.



I think this is Chinese chess. Not sure. Looks complicated. The old men in Busan play it constantly. They kept looking up at me like I was crazy as I photographed them from a tree branch. What? Haven't you ever seen an American in a tree before?




Kids feeding pigeons. Man, those have got to be some paranoid pigeons. Just thirty seconds earlier the kids were trying to ensnare a pigeon in jacket.




All you Western Kentucky photojournalism students need to come to Busan. The city is a veritable cornicopia of photogenic wrinkly old people waiting to be put in your portfolios.







I ran across a group of traditional Korean street dancers celebrating the rice harvest in the middle of Nampo-dong. Their act is called Gilnori and has been unchanged for the last 6000 years. The Koreans love it, as indicated by the crowds of people ten rows thick gathered around the performers. Their drums are called "Buk" and their costumes are called "Minbok."



Last photo. Kids playing, uh, volleyball, I think...With their feet and heads. Nobody used their arms. Wow. It's soccolleyball! OK, that was bad.

Well, I got to go. My wrist is dying and I've racked up a whoping $3 bill at this PC bong. About mid-week I am going to update again with a story about a bully. Until then, I hope you enjoyed the photos and my long rant about Korean. Until next time...Peace! --Notes

OK, for the people who just want to see the pretty pictures, scroll down a ways.

Dennis failed to come to work Tuesday. A quick check of the boy's apartment by Mr. Lee confirmed Ha-young's worst fear: Dennis had skipped town to travel with his friend Michael in Thailand. The apartment was empty. Dennis' decision was so abrupt that he hadn't bothered to sell his $500 motorcycle or ship his beautiful wooden acoustic guitar back home.

Ha-young and Mr. Kim questioned Julie and I, but we were obviously clueless. The last time I saw Dennis was Thursday night as we left ESS to go home. Though he had been gripping a lot about how Korea was this boring, bland place (compared to Prague), he had made it clear to me that the money was too good to quit.

The only clue Dennis would leave came Friday night as the school closed up and the Korean teachers took Mike and I to dinner. Mike and I were talking when he suddenly said that he had something important - and 'not good' - to tell me later on in the evening. I had a hunch it had to do with Dennis, but I kept my mouth shut. Our dinner of samgupsa went off without a hitch, everyone laughing, yelling "Kumbae!" as they repeatidly toasted Mike and I over shots of strait soju.

Dinner ended late and it was during the cab ride home that I suddenly remembered Mike's (now broken) promise. I'd never hear what he had to say. At the time I didn't think much of it. Mike and I hadn't really gotten to know each other well, and there wasn't a lot about his life that could effect mine - or so I thought.

After my 1-2P class Tuesday I walked into the crowded alley behind ESS for a snack. The ajumma running the takpokkee stand recognized me immediately and quickly slapped together a plate of the spicy ricetube stew and a Korean pancake called a panchun. I ate slowly, thinking about my next two classes while watching people browsing the market. I was about to pop another big piece of over-spiced processed fish product into my mouth when Julie ran up beside me, her big green eyes lit up with something like excitement.

"Dennis is gone," she blurted out. "Dennis is gone," she said it again when I continued to eat my lunch, chewing methodically on this new, slightly expected, slightly unexpected development. To tell you the truth, I wasn't as surprised as I let Julie believe. The first thought to pop into my head was Mike's dark promise. The second was the grim realization that Dennis or no Dennis, his classes would get taught.

I next six hours saw me teach nine classes back-to-back, half of which weren't mine. I can't really explain to you how my body felt as I hobbled to the bus stop that evening, but I was so tired that I dozed on the bus ride home for the first time ever.

I'm happy to say the rest of the week went much better. I still had a lot of classes, but Ha-young massaged the schedule such that I didn't have any more than five in a row without a break. Also, I picked up two delightful advanced classes and Mike's Saturday high school classes - an extra $320 a month for eight hours work.

The advanced classes allow me to be more creative with my lesson plan as well as improve the discipline to instruction ratio. I spend more time teaching and less time policing. I tried a treasure hunt with my Special Class (the best speakers). I wrote clues such as the following:

"Between floors three and two, there is a clue waiting for you."

Or...

"Under flowers fake, colored yellow and black, there is a clue leading to a snack."

I made fourteen clues and divided them up between the two girls and two boys. I hid chocolate bars and set them loose on ESS. Sadly, some smartasses in the auditorium stole two of the boys' clues and they lagged behind the girls. With all of my advanced classes I start the class with a brain teaser or two. This week's was as follows:

"Make as many words as possible with the letters w, h, and e in them."

The exercise gives me a chance to take roll and practice the children's names. It also forces the students to do some analytical thinking, which seems to be woefully under represented in their normal schoolwork.

I played Franz Liszt's "Hungarian Rhapsody" for my high school students on Saturday, asking them to write about the images that come to mind as they listen. Their responses were shockingly creative and unique. One of the girls thought the music sounded like the day in the life of a busy human being. Another told the story of a soldier who, after leaving his family to go to war, made friends with his enemy and ended the conflict peacefully. A quiet boy in my H1 class wrote about a man killed in a car accident and how on the way to heaven he suddenly saw how beautiful and special his life had been. It was amazing.

In my 3E2 class I asked the students to write a short story one sentence at a time: One student per sentence. They divided into groups, one group of eight and one of seven. You can almost tell which sentences were written by the boys. The first story went like this:

A woman goes to the airport.
She saw a crazy guy.
She said, "Oh my God! He steal my bag!"
She follow him.
He is very fast.
She was couldn't caught.
She said, "Oh, no! He this is my bag. Come on yo!"

The second story was as follows:

A man walks into a park.
He meets his girlfriend. The end.
Another story is the girl meets boyfriend.
The boy crosses the street and car accident and died.
The last story is I saw smack down on TV.
Batista is Batista Bomb to JBL.
He is dead. The End.

Don't ask me why I felt the urge to publish these, I might tell you. OK, you pulled my leg. I think it is interesting how similar these kids are to the kids in Mississippi. They love wrestling, clothes, petty crime and Jesus (well, a couple love Buddha) JUST like the kids in Mississippi (few of whom know who Buddha is). I just think that's interesting.

Saturday was productive. I shopped Nampo-dong until I found a nice pair of black shoes for $20. I argued the lady down to $15 and got her to throw in a couple of pairs of socks. I think I still got ripped off, but hey, can't win em' all. I also found a good set of computer speakers for $10. Nampo-dong is a mecca for shoppers, and it is here that I see the most foreigners on the weekends. They come from all over Busan to browse the infinite alleyway bizarres, storefronts and street vendors on my home turf.



The slogans on clothes, company signs and advertisements that cover Busan (Nampo-dong in particular) have become an unexpected source of comedy in my life. There isn't a week that goes by that somebody walks by with something fantastically ridiculous inscribed on their jacket in English. With the Koreans being as insulated as they are from the outside world, I'm sure they think I'm mad as I lay on the ground laughing hysterically and pointing at their sweatshirt (exaggeration, I swear). Grammer, already on the ropes Western pop culture, is brought to new lows in Korea. Most of these misappropisms appear to be poor translations of English, like Yoda was their chief liguist or something. Some examples:

"Impossible is nothing!" (You don't say? Spotted on numerous t-shirts)
"Heaven almost helps those who wear jeans." (Almost. Billboard in Saha)
"Don't ever mess with a stuffed T." (You'll piss off PETA. T-shirt)
"The Open-Minded Ear, Nose and Throat clinic." (Well that's good to know. Billboard in Gaya)

I'll post whatever new ones I come across as the weeks progress.

Julie and I went to Kaeyoungsundae to party Saturday night. I watched my alcohol consumption and this time I didn't pass out on a street curb.

I woke up at a decent hour and caught the train out to Busan's largest Buddhist temple: Beomeosa! I went alone partly because I wanted to take a bunch of photos (and that usually unnerves my companion) and partly because Julie was much more successful at the bar last night. I needed to get out of the apartment for a while.

On the train ride there I played peek-a-boo with a child in the seat across from me. A cute university student with a camera and a box of Ilford photographic paper catches my eye. My heart aches to go talk to her, but there is so much standing in my way. The language, my own social awkwardness and shyness all conspire against me, so I stare out the window.

Outside the train Busan breathes in the crisp fall air under a faultless blue sky. People go about their business ignorant of the watcher from another land zipping by overhead. I study their faces and movements, watch them talk, eat, laugh and live.

There are so many people in the world, all trying to live their lives as best they can. I don't know their names, I don't know their dreams. As I study them my brain hypothosizes what their lives are like, piecing together a lifetime from a set of physical characteristics. It's kind of a fun way to pass the time, but it can make me feel lonely.

Most people I come across say the vastness of the universe makes them feel small and insignificant, the millions of lightyears, planets, stars and galaxies reducing them to a handful of dust. Not me. Staring into the infinite field of stars fills my soul with joy. I feel like I'm a part of something big, endless and beautiful. It's when I'm in a huge crowd of strangers that I feel tiny, unimportant, like my life is no more important than anyone else's, and it's true. What makes me any more special than the next man? Why do I feel like I can ask more of God than he can? What does God owe me? I am alive. I have already been given the world.

These thoughts accompany up the long hill towards Beomeosa. A taxi pulls up and I squeeze in with a small family. We drive past lines of Koreans in their fancy hiking attire. The climb is a friendly 2.5 kilometer jaunt up an evenly-graded road. Most of the Koreans appear equipted to tackle K2.







I walk the grounds of Beomeosa. Ancient multi-colored huts and temple buildings stand silently as tourists mill about at their feet. I decide to take a hike up the nearest mountain and let the crowds thin out. An old woman holding prayer beads in her hands jumps ahead of me as I drink from my canteen. I follows close behind her, listening to her recite prayers as she climbs. The forrest is green and lush and cool. The little piles of rocks typical to many Buddhist temples stand sentry amid the foliage. The trail is concrete, and the fake stone stairs feel totally alien here, out of synch with the Buddhist tradition.

After a little while the concrete peeters out a few hundred yards past where most of the city folk turn around. I follow the trail a half-mile further and come to a sharp peak topped with an ancient stone wall.

It's nearly three p.m. by the time I reach the actual temples of Beomeosa. This being primarily a scouting trip (with further explorations planned for the future), I didn't plan on spending more than an hour. I spent three.

Beomeosa is beautiful. There is simply no other way to say how this place made me feel, my grasp of the English language is just not that advanced. Tourists and faithful Buddhists walk the stone and sand pathways, pausing to take off their shoes and pray at one of the many shrines. Within the buildings little candles in the shape of the Buddha line shelves like Christmas Tree lights. The late afternoon sunlight filters through the trees and saturates the bright colors of the temple eaves. Children play among the weathered stone pagodas in the courtyard.










Around five thirty the sun dips behind the mountain and the chilly air reminds me that yes, I chose to wear shorts this morning. It was the smart move at the time, I swear. I snap a few more pictures before making a break for the bus back to the train station.

Peace. --Notes

Julie and I went to PNU Friday night. Going out is a major undertaking, being that the foreigner bars are an hour by train from Young-do island. Drinking makes riding Julie's motorcycle out of the question. The entire public transportation system shuts down at midnight, so once you're there, you're stuck there until six-thirty the next morning.

Friday was Mike's last day. He and Dennis went to say their goodbyes over a pint or two at O'Brian's while Julie and I headed to the Busan National University district. On our way to the subway we stopped by a GS25 and bought a bottle of soju and some orange juice. Drinks are expensive in PNU and the subway takes 45 minutes to get there. I mixed the soju and orange juice while Julie bought a ticket.

FOOTNOTE: Soju is the Korean's signiture booze, much like Sake in Japan. However, soju is nothing to be proud of. Sake actually tastes good. As far as I can tell, soju is glorified rubbing alcohol. It's cheap. It hurts like hellfire in the morning and I keep urging myself to stay away from it when I go out. Oh wait, it's cheap.

The subway car was packed with commuters. Some talked, some slept, others focused curious eyes on the two foreigners getting silly as the soju worked it's devilish magic. I chatted briefly with an ajumma (old/married lady) sitting next to me. All my conversations with strangers in Korean are exactly the same:

"Hello, how are you?"
"I'm good, how are you?"
"Good. Thank you."

It's getting to where I want to learn the language simply to have something else to say.


An older man with a basket of perfect red roses got on the train at Seomyeon and walked up to the steel bar above our heads. He set the basket down and laughed as I photographed his flowers. A University student sitting next to Julie helped us strike up a conversation with him. He was an administrator for the transit system. He was learning English and was happy that we would talk to him. The flowers were for his wife.

We bounced from bar to bar. I wasn't watching myself and the alcohol got the better of me. Around 3AM I collapsed on the curb in front of SoulTrane and prayed, "Please God, stop the world, I'd like to get off." But the world kept spinning, faster and faster. What was worse, it was after midnight and the subway had changed into a pumpkin and mice. It would be three hours before it reverted back to a subway car and took us to our palace on Young-do. I hung my head between my knees and fell into a troubled sleep.

Julie discovered me around 4 and we too a taxi back home.

I didn't come to Saturday until 1PM. It was a gorgeous day. The wind smelled of fall: Crisp, cool and dry. My hangover was tremendous, and I spent the better part of the afternoon on the couch, a bottle of water in my right hand, half-heartedly watching a Wesley Snipes action flick. Nameless villians speaking in Korean subtitles died violently on my television screen while far below children played soccer in the parking lot, reminding me of the perfect day I was pissing away.

The hangover had cleared enough by five that I could stumble to the window. I turned off the TV and watched a cargo ship round the point, moving like the minute hand of a clock: imperceivable at first glance, but indeed moving. I followed it as it disappeared behind the Taejongdae light, the sunlight glinting off it's wake. A cloud passed and the sunlight illuminated an ajumma in the parking lot pushing a toddler in a stroller far below.

I decided to make something of the day. I dressed and started up Bongnaesan mountain. The wind soaked up the alcohol as it fled my flesh in tiny drops of sweat. About half way up the peak my beleaguered body put on the brakes by a rock outcropping overlooking the sea. The acute angle of the sun sillouetted the ships anchored in Nampo-dong harbor and made the sea look like a field of snow, seemingly frozen, immobile. Lines of fishing boats stretched from the mouth of the harbor to the horizon. The further away they sailed the less they appeared to move, the wakes stretching for miles from their source.


After my hike I put my camera on my shoulder and took a bus down to the Pusan International Film Festival. Many of the films being shown are Korean pop flicks, movies akin to the Wesley Snipes action movie I shared my hangover with earlier. However, there is a huge collection of movies from directors the world over, and I wanted to find the good ones. This would prove difficult: Cue language barrier.

What few movies were in English or English subtitles didn't seem to be in Nampo-dong. My guess was they were shown in the Haeundae beach area (where all the English-speaking tourists would naturally hangout), an hour away. The other problem was that the movie descriptions, times and locations were all in Korean. I can read Hangul, but I don't know what it means.

Nampo-dong, being distantly related to Hollywood, bears some resemblance to it's American counterpart. Nampo-dong square is home to the Korean Walk of Fame, where famous Korean directors, actors and comedians cast their handprint in the sidewalk. Colored floodlights painted the bronze plaques in red and yellow. People periodically separated from the crowds to photograph the plaques or place their hands in the bronze casts. I photographed them as they honored their idols.


Sunday saw Julie, Haydee and me don helmets and escape Busan via motorcycles. Julie wanted to see a real Korean hot spring before she left the country in a month, and she read a city called Bukgu had the best. Visions of rock-encrusted pools of crystaline water steamed in my head as we navigated the harrowing streets of Saha on the outskirts of town.

After an hour and a half of driving (stopping periodically to check the map and stretch our legs) we reached the hamlet of Bukgu. To our disappointment the hotsprings weren't the visual wonders we had invisioned. They were deep underground. The many hotels and spas that lined the streets of Bukgu piped in the hot mineral-rich waters into elaborate pools and jacuzzi's for their guests. We shrugged our shoulders, paid 6000 won ($6) and enjoyed a few hours in a spa.



Dennis called in sick Monday. Michael came in to work one last day. The director, Mr. Kim, held a going-away party for Mike in the auditorium at 8:15PM. The middle and high-school age students filled the wooden pews, chatting excitedly. A few who knew me turned and waved vigorously to me with these big, goofy smiles on their faces. After singing the ESS song (which one day I'll record for you) and giving a rather disturbingly Nazi-esque salute to Mr. Kim, Mike stood up, flowers and a speech in hand.


Suddenly my skills as a photojournalist were called into action. Mr. Kim had me get my camera and document Mike's proud march to the front of the auditorium. Much to my horror, he staged the photo, making sure all the students were clapping as Mike walked victoriously to the podium. You will notice it is out of focus. I was taken completely by surprise and the autofocus was set improperly. Billy Weeks, eat your heart out.

Mike gave his speech, the students cheered, he shook Mr. Kim's hand, and then it was my turn.



Wait a minute. My turn?

Ha-young made a frantic motion at me with her hands and whispered in my ear,

"Uh, Stephen, I'm sorry, I didn't say to you but you have to give a speech."

The whole auditorium stared at me expectantly. I swallowed hard, suddenly remembering how Carolyne told me this would happen. I also remembered how I told myself I'd be ready for it. I realized then and there that A) I forgot Carrie's warning and, B) I was not prepared. I sheepishly made my way to the front of the room and did my level best not to sound idiotic. I failed, but at the end of my speech the auditorium erupted in applause and Mr. Kim shook my hand vigorously as Mike grinned and took pictures.


Earlier in the day I received a box of birthday presents from my parents. I resisted opening it until I got home late Monday night. Following the last class the whole staff went to dinner to celebrate Mike's departure and my birthday. We ate Samgapsa and drank soju, yelling "Kumbae!" with each shot. By the time we got back to the apartment, Julie and I were exhausted.

Julie shut the door and collapsed into bed. I took my last reserves of energy and opened my birthday box. Inside were two boxes of Tastycakes, three books on teaching, real English tea, a stress ball, a whistle (just you wait 3B), a bookmark and a DVD. However, the two best gifts came out last: Framed photos of my family (including our three cats) and yes, a shower curtain!!!

Mike was gone, and there was a good chance his friend Dennis would soon follow. The two are inseparable, and Dennis wasn't enjoying his stay in Korea. He had plenty of money, his house in Lake Charles, Louisiana, had been destroyed by a hurricane and his best friend was stranding him here to go travel Southeast Asia. I gave him a month, Julie two weeks. It sucks because if he dips out on his contract, that leaves Julie and I to cover his AND Mike's classes.

I tried not to think of these dark things as I cleaned up the mess from my birthday box and got ready for bed. It had been an eventful three days, and I had seen a lot. As I turned out the lights from the kitchen, it occured to me that I had one more thing to do.

I got the plastic rings out of the birthday box and hung my new shower curtain.