Immediately after I started work here in the borough of Gwangjin I wrote out a beautiful organizational chart. I find solace, calm and confidence in a structured schedule. It ensures that I am productive, which in turn gives me an indescribable amount of comfort. My first two weeks in my new apartment and at my new job had me entirely nervous. I was anxious, fidgety, a soul surrounded by thunder and creaking planks. I attribute this unsettled, stranded feeling to the fact that my room acted like a vacant jail cell. I’d walk in every day to little to no food stores, zero furniture and negligible forms of communication (stolen, weak and temperamental internet signals and no cell phone).
I wake up at no later than 11am. I throw on my cloths, grab my backpack, plug in my iPod and crack open a carton of Denmark yoghurt strawberry milk and start my walk to the pool. I was adamant about joining a swimming pool and mentioned this to Jay on my first day of work. I was crossing my fingers, rubbing my four leaf clover and throwing around a few hale Mary’s that there would be an adequate pool somewhere close to where I live and work. Every day I walk about twenty minutes down a long eight lane avenue with sidewalks lined with sycamore trees. I turn a short corner after passing my bank and walk by the lanky man who sits on his plastic red stool selling apples, ginger and leeks. I continue to walk past huge skyscraper residential condominiums while making faces at school children who are always entirely shocked that I pay attention to them. Korean’s on the street will stare directly at you but when you stare back they feel awkward. Fancy that. I pass by a Paris Baguette to my left and skip across the marble floors of a massive commerce building as locals stare out at me from the comfort of their Starbucks couches. I reach a spinning intersection where I cross with much hesitation only once the locals jump in front of me (I would rather not get hit by a car so I stand back a few seconds until the coast is clear).
As I cross the intersection I catch my first glimpse of the Gwangjin Fitness Center which looks like something out of a science fiction novel. On the other side of the street I smile at the old man who sits on his flatbed truck selling sweet potatoes, cabbage and piles upon piles of ginseng root. The Gwangjin Athletic Center looks like a space ship at first glance. A huge Epcot Center sized golf ball sphere at the entrance is surrounded by tall glass lined administration buildings. The central gym is five stories and looks like an exotic airport terminal. Every wall is on a diagonal. Behind the building is an expansive pond, race track and walking trails. Ever morning I arrive at ten to noon and hand 3500 won to the desk clerk with my ID card. I am then given a locker key. Handed over with two hands. I smile, bow and look as awkward as possible. On my first visit I inquired about getting a monthly swim pass but they don’t offer them here. So instead I pay around $3.50 every time I visit the pool for a fifty minute swim. If I swim five days a week for the month I end up spending just over $70 dollars to do lengths. This is outrageously expensive to what I am used to paying at home. It costs $45 dollars to swim at the Oakville pool for three months. I hesitated at first when I found out how much it was going to cost me to swim and then took a deep breath and made the decision to put my health first.
The men’s locker room entrance features a large lobby floor covered in shoes. My first visit to the locker room was rather humorous as I didn’t know I had to take my shoes off. I was soon told off by a very weathered wrinkled man. All I could think to do while he was irately screaming at me was bow and bow and bow some more. So now I always take my shoes off before entering. The floors are toasty warm heated hardwood. I rush to my locker and change quickly before passing through the endless showers full of naked shriveled up old Korean men. Everyday there is a little man (he can be no taller than four feet) who walks around the shower room singing Korean Opera. I initially didn’t understand why he was here. Perhaps he was an insane local “Town Crier?” Or even the local town mascot? I have decided the only explanation for his presence is the pleasant buffer that his lyrics create against the shrill sound of horking. If there is any part of Korean culture that I could do without it would be the horking. People on the street or in the shower have no qualms about taking back a huge mucus filled hork and spewing it in front of them. Every time I hear this outrageously gruesome calamity I cringe and try not to heave.
After passing through the Operatic hork fest of the shower room I walk down a few steps into the Olympic sized swimming pool stadium. If I arrive early I sit on a bench and squeeze my hair under my swim cap. I spend a few minutes staring onto the pool laughing at the ridiculous women puttering around in the water. Every day before my noon hour swim there is a woman’s swimming class. They all giggle and stammer in the water mostly gossiping while standing by the side of the pool. At the end of each class they all attempt to dive. I have learned Koreans do not have a clue how to dive. I wish I could videotape these ladies trying “gracefully plunge into the water.” I could watch their fruitless attempts forever. I have never seen so many loud, smacking, belly flops in my entire life.
At exactly 12 noon a thin medium sized 25 year old woman comes out onto the deck with a whistle and starts tooting her horn and leading an exercise class. On my first visit I was entirely taken off guard by this pre swim organized stretch. The entire pool deck starts following along like some sort of drone army. Most of the exercises seem redundant or purposeless (pinching the air with your fingers?). How odd. Everyone stares at me as if they are all black minnows and I am some exotic goldfish who has just been plopped into their aquarium.
You have to be pushy in Korea. If you expect to get anywhere you have to shove, push and walk quickly. The same goes for the pool. If you don’t want to get kicked in the face or jabbed in the rib cage you have to assert yourself and make yourself known to the people around you. I always jump into the first lane as soon as the last whistle blows cease, the stretch queen bows and the drone army applauds. My lane is always full of women who barely know how to swim. I often wonder if they even want to swim. At any given time there are no more than four people swimming. The majority of people stand at the ends of the lane gabbing and gossiping about God knows what. It took me about a week to stop acting like an overtly polite and courteous Canadian and really make myself known at the pool. I found myself constantly apologizing when I felt like I may be rudely budding, or accidentally smacked someone in the head. The first few days were entirely aggravating. I would wait at the end of the lane waiting for the ladies to continue swimming. I got kicked in the face a few times and considered quitting as this pool was the most chaotic swim I had ever endured. Was I really paying for this?
I am happy to say that I am now the unofficial leader of my lane. All of the ladies wave to me when I arrive each day. They call me Canada and always motion for me to go ahead when they are enjoying prolonged pool side gossip sessions. I now have a reputation as an expert athlete (I never thought I would ever see the day that I said that). Many of the women ask me for tips on how to improve their strokes. None of them speak any English so I simply use body language. I can now swim for fifty minutes non stop without getting kicked in the face or jabbed in the ribs. The ladies all “see me coming” and cling to the wall as soon as they notice that I am behind them. I can tell that most of them plan their next paddle through the water based on where I am at any given time along the lane.
It is here where I introduce you to the Sea Cow. At first I just called her the blob. Then her name evolved to Sea Cow. By the second day we were having broken English conversations and she told me her name was Manatee. I laughed out loud and she gave me a huge giggle behind her chubby fingers. This woman is the fattest person I have ever seen floating in a pool. I can walk through water faster than she can swim. She doesn’t even really swim so much as floats with an attempt to move. She has a fabulously cartoon-ish body. Her legs are thin and muscular but from the hips up she carries the weight of the world. A giant blob outfitted in a black spandex Speedo. Naturally she and I hit it off and we are best of swim friends. I use my most animated of faces when I have my daily chats with her. She usually “swims’ the front crawl but I caught her attempting to butterfly just last week and it looked as though she was drowning. I think she lost the idea of “propelling yourself forward.” I always get a bit excited to see her as she is my daily burst of Korean conversation.
After fifty minutes of swimming I run into the shower, endure the orchestra of manic opera and bone chilling horking. Last week a little 90 year old naked man came up to me as I was shampooing my hair and asked, “what nation you come?” I reply, “ca-na-da” and he smiles and pats me on the shoulder. I figure some of the most awkward moments in life will take place in these showers. As soon as these old Korean men see me, a pasty white naked man, walk into the shower they stare at my body as if it is some wild and curious oddity. I have gotten used to men coming up to ask me questions while I am showering. At first it was really odd and awkward but now I find myself chirping up the conversation.
I always thought swimming lengths at a pool was a pretty basic concept. I am now amazed at how even what we think is so simple can be so very different. On the walk home I try to shake my water logged ears to and fro. I pass by several hot street food vendors. A wild assortment of deep fried tempura shrimp, sweet and sour chicken, dumplings, and sticks of boiling rice cakes in seafood broth.
I head back to my apartment at 1pm and hang my wet swim wear on my laundry rack. I throw on a few dumplings and read while the smell of hot sesame oil fills the room. I quickly shave and give my neck a sprits of cologne before grabbing my knapsack and head out the door by 2:30pm. I get to my classroom and print off the handouts and materials I need for that day. I always bring a book so I have something to read before the kiddy’s arrive but lately find myself chatting with coworkers.
I teach from 4pm until 10pm Monday to Friday. I loath teaching middle school kids but thoroughly enjoy my cute little elementary school classes. I always have my notebook open to document any ridiculous moments that I experience while teaching.
One day I was reading The Farmer and the Fox with the class. The story is about a farmer who wants to kill a fox for stealing his geese. The fox retorts “do not kill me as if you do people will think you hate.” The class didn’t really understand that concept so I found myself yammering on about “we don’t need no haters.” All of their eyes looked up at me entirely confused. The following week I found myself teaching my middle school kids about Harriet Tubman. I was rather excited to dive into this more mature material with the group as I thought I would be able to get an idea of how they handle social issues here. They had no clue who Harriet Tubman was. I had a very difficult time explaining what slavery was (“imagine having to work without getting paid and you can’t use your cell phones or play Warcraft”). At one point in the class I found myself comparing Ms. Tubman to Aunt Jemima (and asking the children if they enjoyed pancake syrup). By far the most difficult part of the lesson was explaining what an Underground Railroad is (and no kids it’s not a subway.)
The worst lesson I have had to teach was about a famous American revolutionary moment at a Fort somewhere in Maryland. The story used the term Indians and I had to explain to the children that Indians were not from India. They were entirely perplexed. I then had to set aside about ten minutes to explain the history and origin of the term Indians for Native Americans. My attempts were futile and I ended up giving up. We ended up using the term Indian a lot that day and I knew very well that all of these children imagined a gang of nasty Indian’s from Mumbai storming a Fort in Maryland in the 1700’s.
I have also learned that any honest and innocent question can turn for the worse. We had a reading exercise about a man who loves to try new foods. Exotic foods like Mexican Tacos, French Crepes and Chinese Dumplings (and I roll my eyes, yes Koreans think Chinese food is exotic). I asked the class, “what are the most exotic foods you have ever eaten?” The conversation became really awkward. Half of the kids in the class have been to China on vacation with their families. Several started yammering on about the ridiculous things they have eaten in China. One girl said she ate donkey in Shanghai and that it tasted like eel but had the texture of pork. Betty (the chubby little boy) ate fish eyes and monkey brains at a Chinese market with his mother. Two boys claimed to have eaten cow penis in Beijing but I think they said that simply to get a rise out of all of the ladies in the class room. The conversation ended shortly after Reina, my favorite little Korean student put up her quivering hand and said, “baby fetus soup.” I stared at her blankly and asked her to repeat what she said as I was certain I had misunderstood. She repeated and went into much detail about how human fetus soup is very expensive and popular in Hong Kong and Shanghai. She said only rich people could afford it and that her father had been to a restaurant where they served it. He said he refused to eat it but all of the business men at the table gobbled it up. I felt the moral obligation to explain to the children what cannibalism was. I was mortified and shocked and was ever so glad that the class ended moments after. Saved by the bell.
After class I either go out with my co workers for a drink and edibles or head home to read, watch movies or cook and clean. I often spend the evening on my computer connecting with my friends. After globe trotting I have realized I have friends from all over the world that I can keep in touch with any hour of the day. A plethora of time zones to choose from. I have friends living in Spain, England, Scotland, Ireland and Germany. East Coast friends in Toronto, New York, Boston, Ecuador and Argentina. West Coast friends in Vancouver, Oregon, Seattle and California. Along with friends from Australia, New Zealand and Korea! Always someone to talk to.
I usually get to bed by two or three in the morning. I have found myself lying on the heated floors lately with a flickering vanilla candle as I slowly lullaby myself to sleep with the help of Glen Hansard’s beautiful sonnets from the Once movie soundtrack. I saw the movie last weekend and fell in love instantly. I have suggested it to everyone I possibly can. It is a modern day folk rock musical about a busker from Ireland who meets a poor Czech woman who selling roses on the street. They fall in love secretly and start to express their burgeoning affections for each other with love songs. The film is the epitome of adorable, youthful, innocence and truth.
As the candle flickers, and my body warms across the floor I sigh and prepare myself for yet another day filled with ritualistic spontaneity.
