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