August 5, 2008

Korean people laughed at the wrong moments in Dark Knight. They tittered at the Joker’s

worker-imp from the mental institution whose head wobbled on his neck, they chuckled when

the Joker was at his most depraved (voice comical but face menacing). Jaewon guessed, and

I would agree, that it would nervousness around the idea of evil rather than actual enjoyment

that had them reacting so inappropriately.

There really isn’t any concept of evil here. Curse words are rude but not profane, sexual relations

seem aggressive but never perverse, and the various offenses one can commit in daily behavior –

dressing too provocatively, addressing someone incorrectly, etc. – are “wrong” because they are

simply not done, rather than “bad.” Even homosexuality, largely denied in Korea, is unacceptable

only because it seems inconceivable.

Lee Byung-hun in The Good, the Bad and the Weird seemed the best that Koreans could do

in terms of wicked characters: dressed in black, somewhat greasy, but just as justified in his violence

as the Good and the Weird.

August 4, 2008

This morning, I returned to my neighborhood 7 Eleven for the first time since America. When

the bell sounded at my arrival and the night shift employee emerged from the back room, I was

disappointed to see that there was a stranger on duty, instead of my buddy, who is unduly

generous with promotional gifts and recently-expired food items. I collected my usual breakfast,

and was approaching the register when the new guy addressed me.

“Are you Kate?” he asked hesitantly. I beamed back. “My friend who usually works here is away

but he told me to look after you.” He weighted my bag with free kimbab and sandwiches. “How

was America?”

The only friend (friends, now) I have made on my own, I have made in the daily purchase of candy

and ice cream. Bad to have a friendship predicated on petty commerce? Or good to have people

who like me for who I am?

August 3, 2008

We had to explain a nationally representative recipe in Korean class recently. I chose macaroni

and cheese, that pre-digested delight, since it seemed universally appealing.

"First you chop the cheese and butter in small cubes," I said in Korean.

"What is "bu-ttor?" asked the teacher.

"It is the thing made from milk, that you place on toast.”

She gave me a false, wide smile. "That is cheese."

A few more rounds of this and a Japanese student jumped in. To the teacher: "Kate means

margarine."

A-ha! Of course I did.

"Then you place milk, butter, and cheese in a pot and add heat. While you add heat, please

boil the pasta also. After the boiling is finished place the pasta in the sauce. Then please mix

and eat this American food that you have let me explain to you.”

The teacher looked deeply troubled, but not like a well with a pebble in it. "Kate, I think you must

have forgotten some ingredients. I think this food does not sound very delicious."

If someone tells me I have lied I become convinced that I have lied. Then I have to cover it up.

"No, this is a food that is very popular to American children."

"I think that if I ordered this food in a restaurant I would be very disappointed by it. It is all the same

color to itself."

"Yes." She had a point, if a ridiculous one.

"And there is nothing else but the macaroni and cheese. I think I would feel disappointed by just

one thing."

"Macaroni and cheese is frequently eaten with broccoli."

"If I had broccoli, I would dip it in the macaroni and cheese," she said, and seemed satisfied with

the solution.

August 2, 2008

Talking about the rest of my summer, I unconsciously called Korea “home” and noticed

my mom flinching; all I meant was, the place where I keep my laptop. I am back “home” now,

lucid after 36 hours without sleep but destined to sputter and crash at some point later

today.

It was more than nice to be back in America. I was riveted by anything in English: car

commercials, old issues of Entertainment Weekly, the instructions on a packet of instant

oatmeal. That most of my conversations required the same three polite lies about Korea was

no matter, because the conversations were in English and what little inflection I gave them

was entirely conscious and intentional.

Grumblin’ and groanin’ at the airport last night (?), I complained to my dad about not wanting

to come back here. He said that I should think of it as somewhere to conquer my jetlag before

Japan; I will do better than this, but only by degrees directly linked to the amount of caffeine

I can ingest without having a heart attack.

July 23, 2008

Some American things to anticipate: summer radio, reasonably priced fruit, Manhattan

deserted on the weekends, pastries made with butter rather than oil or margarine,

bookstores, Dark Knight, Google in English, all my clothes, any sort of meaningful

communication.

Some Russian things to anticipate: JENIA!!!

I am going home Friday morning, for about a week. It will be my last spell in America until

Christmas and I intend to spend it as frivolously as I would anywhere else.

See you on the flip side, booyakasha, etc.

July 22, 2008

Andrew has already written on the topic with far more poise and perspective

than I could hope to, but the matter of size in Korea is disturbingly misrepresented

to the point that I don’t mind risking redundancy.

Korean and Japanese fashion magazines offer a telling contrast. Aside from Vogue

Nippon, all the Japanese magazines I know use Japanese or halfie models with

proportions that approximate normal, slightly bowed legs and all. In Korea, models

are either the typical Eastern European zombies or Korean girls with uncannily

ectomorphic bodies, significantly thinner than the already very thin female population

here.

Closer to home: even at 5’6” and 103 pounds, I am often the heaviest girl in the room.

July 21, 2008

Boiling myself in the Seoul Club sauna this afternoon, I watched an

impish Korean girl fill bowls of water from different pools and then combine

and recombine them while her mother showered. The girl looked about

six, and had a big round belly atop spindly legs. When she noticed me

watching her she puffed up her cheeks and the closed her eyes.

“Which of these pools is the hottest?” I asked in Korean. She looked around

to confirm that I was talking to her (we were the only ones in that branch of

the sauna) and then tip-toed over to one and dipped her foot in. “I bet that one’s

too hot for you, huh?” She nodded.

She knelt down by my pool and started to splash at me from the edge. I

splashed back as discreetly as possible, scared that her mom might return and

get angry. She giggled, got more boisterous, and I resumed my inquisitive

monologue. “Can you swim?” She nodded. “Do you swim in the outside or

inside pool?” She jerked her head up in response. I noticed her uncannily

adult hands and bright red nail polish. “Did you…” I struggled to think of the right

word for “paint” as it applied to fingernails in Korean.

“I can speak English you know!” She said impatiently. Oy.

Then she hopped up, filled a bowl with cold water, and dumped it down my back

all before I had time to respond (in English).

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