I should probably be grading the stack of diaries my T6 class just handed in, but my dinner will arrive in a few minutes, so I’m taking advantage of the for-once quiet teacher’s room to sit back and think. It’s eighty five and humid as a greenhouse today, which makes the Asian answer to Gatorade—named Pocari Sweat, thanks to an overly literal translator—even less appealing than the average ion-supply drink. But the heat is the least of Korea’s crises this week.

Turmoil first beset South Korea last weekend with the suicide of their much beloved former president, Roh Moo-Hyun, following allegations of a bribery scandal. Rather than continue to take part in the federal investigation which tarnished his reputation, Roh leapt to his death from a mountain behind his house. “Too many people have suffered because of me,” he said in a note, according to CNN. He was 62. I can’t help but consider the various forms of scandal to blemish U.S. leaders from Jefferson up through the Kennedys, Watergate to Hanging Chads. I’m not saying anyone is wrong or right, but I don’t believe any of the latter were so distraught by disappointing the American people that they had to jump off a mountain. You have to admire a culture with a sense of honor. And yet, despite the allegations, Roh was an extremely popular president, and the first Korean leader to cross the demilitarized zone into North Korea to meet with Kim Jong Il.

I’m amazed at the desire South Koreans have to reunite with the north. If U.S. history had been written differently—say, if the south had won—I’d want to be as far towards the California coastline as possible, perhaps even on a houseboat. I certainly wouldn’t want to readopt them and try to meld our opposing ideologies. Admittedly, this is only one of many reasons why I would make a poor world leader. But every now and then my students will write diaries or essays about Korea, and without fail, they want to see the countries reunited.

"Korea is many war history. Fighting is very many. And north, south Koreas was one korea unity ago. But today, not. I very want unity. And dispersion --> teachar dictionary okay? --> dispersion family, together not. My sad. :( "

Which is a pretty solid political analysis for a nine-year-old in a second language.

Dinner is taking longer than usual to get here today, so I open up a diary. They’ve chosen to write about North Korea today, and it’s a timely topic. North Korea is being a decidedly poor neighbor again this week, having just launched another nuclear missile. This week, South Korea officially joined the U.S.-led effort to limit trafficking of weapons of mass destruction, which I think we can all agree is a wise effort. You don’t want to accidentally leave one of those nuclear warheads underneath the couch cushion! But naturally, North Korea—specifically Kim Jong Il, but it’s getting harder and harder to separate the man from his country—doesn’t see things that way. Instead, they’ve chosen to interpret the South’s participation in the effort as a declaration of war. To boot, they no longer plan to abide by the 1953 armistice which ended the Korean War.

Needless to say, we’re all a little sketched out by the north. Here’s another diary entry from today: "I think North Korea is very very VERY MANY BAD!! Because Kim Jong Il is bad man. And north Korea is bomb. And bomb is Boom!!! And that is scary. Because north Korea wars well. Many guns."

Which is true.

Still, the actual threat of war is questionable. North Korea needs economic and energy support from the world, and thus far, it seems all the UN has done in response to what CNN reporter Elise Labott calls North Korea’s display of pyrotechnics has been even less than a slap on the wrist. More like a long, stern look over the top of the glasses. It seems that the North is acting out like a petulant teenager, simply hoping to get attention; at least, we can hope that. I’m no political analyst, but this is what it feels like from where I’m sitting tonight, half an hour from Seoul.

Rest assured that if war does officially break out, I’m skipping town. It’s actually in my contract. My coworker said today, “Hey, at least if there really is a war, we get out of our contracts for free!” Strange that the threat of nuclear war to an entire region makes us think only of the immediate effects on our individual wallets. Then again, isn’t personal economics the driving force behind all wars?

written by  alli_ockinga on May 27, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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But no matter. The staff is rad. Master has a collection of them: slim bamboo sticks of varied lengths, between five and seven feet long. It’s the same weapon that the purple [thanks Chad!] ninja turtle uses. For my first lesson, I learn how to twirl it in front of me like a propeller. I’m a little clumsy at first—can’t say I’ve ever had occasion to twirl a bow staff before this week—and I drop it on my bare toes once. Boy that smarts. I see why it’s considered a weapon. Lesson two follows shortly, when Master refuses to let me pick up the staff.

“Alli,” he says, stepping between my outstretched fingers and the bamboo, “no hand.”
“No?”
“No. You are ninja…and, foot.”
“You have to pick it up with your toes,” Ellen says, filling in the language gaps from several feet away. She has progressed to twirling one-handed on either side of her body. I am jealous.

“Show me,” I say to Master.
“Watch.” In a move reminiscent of soccer, he rolls the staff forward and over onto the top of his right foot and catches it there, forming an L with his shin and foot. Then, like lightning, he kicks and somehow, the staff is now in his hand. As far as I’m concerned, something magical just occurred.
“You try.”
"Um…”
My first attempt lacks a certain something that I’ll call grace, and the staff rolls off the top of my foot before I even think to turn my toes up to catch it. My second try, I catch it, but am stumped. How do I get it to go up?
“Now, kick!” Master encourages.
“Kick how?”
“Up.”

Right. I study the staff, and my right foot, like I’ve never seen either article before. I need to use my foot like a simple machine. There seems to be some sort of fulcrum involved. I cautiously lift my heel off the ground, and the staff catches on the floor and makes a halfhearted attempt to arch up towards me before clattering to the floor again. The upwards motion of the staff startles me so much I yelp and jump backwards as Master laughs. He rarely tries to hide his amusement during class anymore. Ninja indeed.

But I think I understand what needs to happen now. You have to catch the staff about nine inches from its edge, and then the rapid upwards movement of the kick combines with the weight of the stick pivot it upwards from the floor, like a rainbow, towards your waiting hands.

In an ideal world, that’s what would have happened on my next shot. Instead, I was so focused on making my foot do its job that when the lucky rainbow action did occur, I hit myself in the side of the face. I’m glad I wasn’t wearing my glasses, and that I’m not good enough with the weapon yet to inflict any actual damage.

When I get home, my messenger is flashing neon orange at me, and I see that I’ve missed a shout out from my buddy Curt, back home. Sorry, I was at ninja class, I type. You still there?
-I love you because that’s true, he writes. How was class?
I tell him about the staffs, and picking them up with my toes. I achieved about a seventy percent pick-up success rate by the end of class.
-Shut up, he says. -People don’t really use bow staffs.
Straight up, I DO, I say.
-What, like you kick it up to your hands and then swipe it at someone’s FACE?
Yeah. And then I yell AI! And punch them. Theoretically.
-Oh my god. You are mind-blowing.
Thanks.
-It seriously makes my day better knowing that you exist.

I appreciate his incredulity. I think it’s a pretty cool skill too, and I certainly hope that knowing my way around a bow staff translates somehow into my American future. But here I am, having landed in Asia, and I don’t know where this path is leading me, but I’m aware that the only way to find out is to keep following it. Still, there are certainly days when I wake up and think, there are people out there trying to cure cancer and bring peace to the Middle East. And what I am doing? I am getting graded on how quietly I can somersault and my ability to pick up sticks with my feet. But today, I’m thankful to Curt for reminding me that what I’m doing here, as often as it seems like I'm lost, is a really interesting life experience. I’m halfway across the world, and that’s an awesome thing—even if I don’t know why yet.

written by  alli_ockinga on June 11, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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I think I've mentioned that teaching English as a second language involves a lot of charades. This is even more true when teaching science to eight-year-olds--challenging enough--and then adding a language barrier. We're on a pollution/recycling unit right now.

"Okay, guys. Show me your Pollution Face."
"EWWWWWWWW!!" they say, screwing up their faces and sticking their tongues out like Mr. Yuk, complete with two thumbs down.
"That's right. Why is pollution bad?"
"Earth is sick and very many sad."
"Right. Let's see your Recycling Face!"
"Hooray!" Two thumbs way way up, with deceptively angelic smiles, tossing their ribbon-and-curl hairstyles over their shoulders. Only girls in my science class.
"And why is it good to recycle?"
"Earth is happy."

We are going to be making the butterfly banks out of recycled bottles today. I will probably get in trouble by my boss for deviating from curriculum today, but I'm somewhat indispensable to him because a.) I am emceeing the school spelling bee tonight and b.) he's manipulated me into teaching his summer class schedule because I am 'senior foreign teacher' at my school, which means an extra thousand dollars in July, but no hapkido for a month. Thus are the politics of a hagwon.

Anyhow. As I'm assembling the craft materials needed for the butterflies, it strikes me that teaching kindergarden and first grade is really just Mom Practice. *On that note, I'd like to take a moment to thank my mom--all moms, really--for the countless batches of papier mache and play-doh and assorted other art projects you supported over the years. You were a really good sport.* It's not just the crafting that's led to this thought. Last week, I took the science class outside to observe and draw natural resources and taught them about how we stop, look and listen before holding hands to cross the street. Then I showed a kid how to tie his shoe, and a couple days later, splinted a boy's sprained finger with a ballpoint pen, toilet paper and scotch tape. He injured it doing Tae Kwan Do in the halls.

"Teacher! Teacher! Teacher!" Mom! Mom! Mom!

I like the little kids more than I thought I would, though. I really like how they call me Alli-sang and bow to me. Very Karate Kid. They take a lot of energy, but we devised a three-rule system (raise your hand, be quiet, sit down) that's fairly effective. If they follow the rules, they get to play a game at the end of class. If not, tough luck. They've all bought into the system enough that if I forget to write down the rules at the beginning of each class, they yell at me. Which is what I deserve for messing with my own routine, I suppose. I especially enjoy how little it takes to impress young children; the first time I shuffled a deck of cards in front of them, they asked if I knew Harry Potter. I said yes.

written by  alli_ockinga on June 25, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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"If I am island trapped, I take two things no. One thing! I take teleporter!! Is electric not!! Is MAGIC!!!! haha Alley Teacher. I am Korea back. essay is lose. My win."

written by  alli_ockinga on July 21, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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July has been a pleasant and eventful month, and as such, it has whizzed by. Independence Day ushered in the month with a distinctive lack of a bang: this is the first year ever that I haven't been sitting outside watching fireworks for the Fourth. Not that I expect anyone else to celebrate America's birthday, but I did feel a slight nostalgic twinge thinking of my friends back in Idaho sitting on top of their various four-wheel-drive vehicles with a PBR and the old red, white and blue raining down from the sky...however, when offered the chance to spend the day at the Army base listening to a Deana Carter concert witht the troops, I declined. I ended up spending the night at a reggae bar in Seoul, then drinking Hite, my subpar Korean beer of choice, on the playground with my Special Friend. All in all, it was a good night.

I messed up my knee again with an ill-timed backflip in hapkido. Fortunately (or maybe not?), it wasn't the knee I hurt skiiing over New Years, but the other one. In a sad twist of fate and joints, my bad knee has become my good knee, as my performance standards dropped across the board. Here's how that went down:

Master gets out the blue padded mat, runs a few steps and flips in midair, kicking his feet over his head and landing in a silent ninja roll, then looks at me, and gestures for me to try. "Alli, you," he says.
"I don't think I can do that," I say. I do not generally suffer from a lack of confidence, but this seems like a time to tell the truth.
"Alli, yes!" he says, emphatically. "You, ninja."
He's right, I think. I AM a ninja. So I run, and I jump, and I kick, and OH MY GOD THAT'S NOT HOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO GO!! So I landed on my left knee and it was terrible. Because I have my own health insurance for the first time ever, I went to see the doctor, who gave me painkillers and a brace, and I lurched around class like I had, as one kid said, a "robot leg." I told them I had knee pain, and felt old. Master felt pretty bad about overestimating my ability as a ninja. "I worried," he said. "In hapkido, you are my student. Outside, you are my sister." Awww. So, I took a two-week hapkido hiatus, and it feels better now. The only time I have problems are when I'm at a restaurant, sitting cross-legged on the floor, which is essentially torture to a person with two bad knees...

The next weekend, every foreigner in Korea headed to the coastal town of Boryeong for Mudfest, which is exactly what it sounds like: mudslides, beer, mudcrafts, beer, mud wrestling, beer, mud masks, and beer. Needless to say, it was a blast. And for the record, I'd like to state that I kept it classyish and stayed away from wrestling of all sorts. I met up with my Special Friend there, who had demanded that I meet his best friend that weekend. As a woman, I'll admit that there's a slight part of me that wishes my first impression for the Bro Test hadn't been made while I was literally covered head-to-toe in mud, but...at least I didn't come off haughty.

read on for part 2...

written by  alli_ockinga on July 28, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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That brings us up to this week. My mind is almost fully occupied with preparations for the upcoming trip to Cambodia, commencing this Sunday at dawn. I started taking my preventative malaria medicine this week, and on Sunday, I spent a pretty good chunk of my earnings on a new digital camera, since mine broke when I was hiking back in June. Or maybe it was at the beach. Regardless, I have also invested in a camera case this time. I also got a new backpack, and I am just enough of an outdoor geek to be smitten with it. For those that care (cough...that's you, Dad) it's an Osprey pack, 50 liter capacity, internal frame, with a detachable top pocket that converts into a day pack. Which essentially means I have a badass fanny pack!

Also, I found pancake syrup at my market yesterday, and will be having french toast for dinner tonight for the first time in six months. I am more than a little excited. It really is the little things that make life worth living!

written by  alli_ockinga on July 28, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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At least, until everything went horribly wrong.

After two days lounging on the beaches of Sihanoukville with coctails and brand new tans, Ellen and I decided we needed an expedition of sorts to avoid feeling slothful. We decided on snorkeling, since I'd never done it, and to be honest, we weren't looking to be TOO active--it was, after all, vacation. There were several outfitters that offered snorkeling day trips for the outlandish cost of $50, which is pretty offensive when you consider that one dollar equals four thousand Cambodian riel. Minding our budget, we waited for a better deal, and sure enough, found a place offering a half-day trip for the more reasonable cost of $15. And it included lunch! What luck!

We piled into a 1973 Mercedes van with nine strangers and drove to the port side of town, where we met with the rest of our thrifty crew, comprising about twenty people in all, plus our Cambodian captain, who sported neon green floral shorts and a ball cap worn to the side in a brash manner that did not inspire much trust. We waded out to our craft, a thirty-foot dinghy painted a gaudy orange with eroded two-by-fours for seats, and not a life-jacket in sight. It called strongly to mind The Life of Pi, and I fought the urge to look for tigers in the stern. "I hope we're not going far," Ellen said. "You know how I get motion sickness."

It turns out we were going far. Very, very far, across the open South Asian seas, filled with sharks and rays and all manner of sea monsters, in an oversized outboard, whose steering mechanism was a wooden rudder linked by what appeared to be dental floss to a piece of driftwood which Captain Hooligan manned with one foot, his hands being occupied by cigarettes. Huge swells swamped our boat, making the other daring vessels around us seem to disappear as they were thrust up and dunked down by the waves. Ellen got more than a little sick, but managed to hold it together until we finally stopped at our snorkeling destination a good hour and a half later. I am lucky not to suffer from seasickness, so I was still in a chipper mood, ready to explore the coral reef beneath us. Even when our guide handed me the sort of snorkel one buys at WalMart for their six-year-old to explore the shallow end of the kiddie pool, my enthusiasm wasn't dampened. "Also," said our guide, "in the sea, do not touch the urchins. They have the black spikes, and you will hurt the self."

Donning our snorkel gear, we jumped out and began to swim inland. I looked down, and to my surprise, big black spines reached towards me from all angles. Our boat had landed us in a forest of sea urchins. They were everywhere, and there was no way to stop swimming and set your feet down without coming into contact with at least one. But we were there, and we still wanted to observe the sea life, so we took our chances, pondering all along the many implications of the vague phrase 'hurt the self.' We saw bright coral and big fish that looked like they were wearing zebra skins. There were little yellow fish and rigid tubular organisms that looked like portals to another world, and tons of spongy somethings dotting the reef and sand.

And thousands upon thousands of sea urchins. You see where this is headed. Before long, I was distracted by something colorful, and forgot the no-touching rule, got a little too close, and ZAP! the urchins got me. I would describe the immediate resultant pain as a combination of a deep scrape from a sidewalk, and a shot at the doctor's office, but with more blood. My right thumb, left ankle and right shin were now bleeding into the ocean, where the sea water continued to extract it's own revenge; I now understand the phrase 'salt in the wound' with brand new clarity.

We got back in the boat and headed to the island for lunch and some down time. Once again, Ellen almost lost it all in transit. When she felt a little more settled, we decided to take another dip in the ocean, assuming it was safe since the area was clear of the monstrous urchins.

Silly girls. The ocean is never safe. We hadn't been frolicking more than six minutes before I cried out at yet another searing, whip-like pain, this time across my shins. A second later, Ellen shouted, too, and I watched several filmy and translucent somethings cruising by. Jellyfish! Son of a...! We hurriedly swam ashore, but not before getting the business end of three or four more tendrils...each. One of them even re-stung my previous urchin sting, adding insult to injury. After that, we stayed ashore. Burn me once, shame on you, burn me twice, shame on me.

Back once more to the boat, where Ellen was dreading the two-hour trip home, and with good reason. After all her efforts, the incessant rolling of the seas got to her, and with resignation, she leaned over the side of our dinghy to lose her lunch. And breakfast. And possibly last night's dinner. As I watched from a sympathetic but cautionary distance, a sting ray with a two-foot wing span passed right beneath the surface next to our boat. I wanted to point it out, but this seemed like an inappropriate time. Additionally, I was afraid that if it knew I'd seen it, it would somehow leap into the boat to open my previously suffered wounds with a lash of it's tail, and that would be how I died, like Steve Erwin, but with less fanfare. Ellen finished puking, and sat back up, glancing back to Captain Hooligan, who seemed not only unconcerned, but delighted with her plight, laughing and pointing out the spectacle to his rag-tag first mate.

End score: Ocean 17, Alli and Ellen 0. Lesson of the story: with budget snorkeling, you get exactly what you pay for.

written by  alli_ockinga on August 11, 2009 from Sihanokville, Cambodia
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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When I first arrived in Korea (six and a half months ago), seeing Ellen again was like walking through a rainbow. We were roommates in college, but since that time we've been everywhere, with me making tracks across the northwest, and her in any number of Asian nations. We'd seen each other for one-week snippets stolen from real life over the last few years, but it had been something like eighteen months since we'd been everyday fixtures in one another's lives. It's been so nice to have each other back for a little while. One of the downsides to moving so frequently is that you're always leaving someone behind. I'm just a little more used to being the leaver.

Master commented on the situation recently in his earnest way. He and I were in the hapkido van alone. "Alli," he said, “When Ellen—go and not come back, you will be very many sad and lonely?”
“Yes.”
“Ellen, Alli, number one friends.”
"Yes."

Nailed it. Still, as much as I'll miss her, all is not lost. The five-hour journey is daunting, but not insurmountable, and I'll be heading her way for a visit sometime in September. My dear friend Tom will be arriving in Seoul to visit me in October, and I can't wait to see him again. Tom has always had a way of seeing me as the best possible version of myself, and I think his grounding presence will be good for me. Ellen will be back in November for a week before taking off to India, at which point I'll turn 24 and be undeniably rooted in my mid-twenties. Time is relentless. And then it'll be Christmas, and then January, and I'll get to go home again. So here's to Ellen, wishing her the best on her newest journey! Can't wait to laugh with her again.

written by  alli_ockinga on August 15, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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Quick, close your eyes! Empty your mind. Think: Cambodia. What do you see? Probably Angkor Wat, the world's biggest religious building. And with good reason: Angkor is to Cambodia what Lady Liberty is to NYC--only, having seen them both now, I can say with authority that Angkor is far more impressive. (No offense intended towards the tired, poor, huddled masses, etc.) It's just that you can't top this in terms of the effect it has on a person. In fact, despite its magnitude, the iconic shape of Angkor has reached far beyond its dimensions and has become the national symbol for all things Cambodian, even so far as to be featured on their flag. Again, with reason.

Magnificent as Angkor was, we each had our own favorites of the multitude of temple sites we visited. In a smart move, we hired a tuk-tuk (like a small, roofed carriage with open sides, pulled by a motorcycle) to take us around the sites.

Bayon

Ta Prohm

My hands-down favorite was Ta Prohm. I am prepared to say that the closest I'll ever get to being Lara Croft was at this temple, where the millenial battle between man and nature was neatly showcased in the 1200-year struggle between the temple, defending its place on the continent, and the jungle, attempting to reclaim what's rightfully hers. Yes, I just decided they were she-trees. It was stunning. Huge roots pushed away stones and seeped through cracks in the walls, crawling under and over one another like twisting pythons. I found the entire experience humbling, and I have to admit that I couldn't help but root for the trees.

floating village

I am concerned about kid in a bucket with a snake over croc-infested waters

This isn’t the first time a middle-aged foreigner has asked me to run away north with him. When I lived in Stanley, a little river town in the Idaho Sawtooths, a group of European men went rafting as part of their company convention based in Boise. On the trip, a certain Rudy from Norway became smitten with me, aided perhaps by the eleven B-52s he insisted on sharing with me, and asked me to join him in Montana as his “traveling partner.” While I declined, I like to think of myself as having a certain global appeal.

“So you will buy the two kebabs,” Rahim said. “To help the plan.” Or maybe not. But yesterday, Rahim inspired me to make a certain change in my life which had nothing to do with the Canucks. I’d taken off my glasses to polish them with my shirt, partly because they needed a wipe-down, and partly because it’s a habit and I do it at least fifteen times a day. If there’s ever a statue built of me, I’ll most likely be immortalized in the iconic glasses-polishing pose.

“Ah!” Rahim said, peeking out at me from behind a slab of lamb. “The no-glass face has more beauty!”
I considered myself in the reflection of his polished steel counter. “You think?”
“Yes, it is certain,” he confirmed. “I am the expert.”

It got me thinking. Due to an unfortunate childhood incident involving my older brother and his detached retina, I’ve had what you might unscientifically call an eye thing. It’s not that I don’t like eyes. Truthfully, I think they’re one of the most compelling features in another person. But after seeing what I saw when I was nine, I’ve just never been able to consider actually touching an eyeball—mine or anyone else’s. But there are lots of things I never did before Korea that I do now. Eat mushrooms, for example, or drink before noon. (Kidding, Mom.)

Feeling brave, I go to the optometrist today, conveniently located in the basement of the Lotte Mart. Two salesmen/doctors glance up at me and back down to their paperwork, pretending I’m not there, before an intrepid young man in a skinny tie approaches. “Ahnyeung haseo,” he says, and I reply in kind.

I’m not sure how to phrase my request, because I don’t want to insult him with caveman pigeon if he speaks proper medical English, but nor do I want to resort to charades before it becomes necessary. I decide to shoot for the moon. “I’m interested in contact lenses,” I say. “Can we talk about options and expenses?” He gives me a pleasantly blank look and shakes his head. I’m not sure if he’s denying my request or just confused, so I scale it down a bit and try again. “I want contact lenses,” I say, taking off the glasses.

“Lenses,” he says, pointing at the ones in my glasses frames.
“Yes,” I confirm. “Ne. Eyeglasses, aneeyo.” I make an X with my arms to emphasize that point. “Eye lenses.” To help, I hold my thumb and index finger about a centimeter apart and point at my iris.
“Yes, eyes,” he says.
“Eye lenses.”
“Okay.”

He nods, and gestures for my glasses, then goes behind the counter and into a back room with them. I hope I get them back. Sure enough, the young man comes back with them and sticks them in a little machine, and apparently that’s all it takes to get contacts, because then he directs me to a mirror and a stool. “Down,” he says, which I choose to take as “Please have a seat, miss.” I do, and he gets out a little contact kit with two dimples for the lenses and a bigger area into which he pours what I assume is saline solution, though there’s no way to know for sure. I’ve never had contacts before, so maybe there’s a step I don’t know about.

“You hand,” he says, so I extend my digits obediently. I feel a little like a Labrador. Down! Stay! Shake! With a tweezer, he places the clear, convex disk on my index finger. “In the eye,” he says. I take a deep breath, and he watches with amusement, completely unaware that I’m confronting a deep-seated aversion right now. I get my the lens about two inches from my eye and am stumped. How does it stick? I look at him again.
“How?” I say.
“In the eye.” Helpful.

I lift my arms in that W-shape, which I’m pretty sure is the universal sign for I feel like an idiot but I really don’t know what’s up right now. He laughs at me. “Make big the eyes.” He takes off his own glasses and shows me how to open my eye super wide, and then place the lens right on top of my very much exposed eyeball. I give it another shot, make big the eyes, and oh gross I’m touching it! And I can’t finish the job. The salesman laughs at me, rinses the contact, and gives it back. “Hana, duel, set,” he says. I’m supposed to hold it on my eye for three seconds. So I try again, but this time I blink reflexively and mess it up again. He sighs, less amused now, and rinses it again. And again, and then one more time. With each attempt, he varies the instruction as much as his vocabulary allows. “Look and see,” he says. And then, “Eyes up.” “See the eyes.” On the eighth try, I get it to stick. “Asah,” he breathes. "Okay." I wonder if he gets commission. I hope so. But I’m getting better: the left one takes only six tries, and then he makes me take them out, which I manage to do without any significant optical damage.

He’s putting together a little contact accessories kick, which is pink and sparkly, because this may be a doctor’s office, but it’s still Korea. I notice he’s only giving me one. “Are these disposable?” I ask.

Again, he shakes his head blankly. I draw a cylinder shape in the air a foot over the ground, pluck something invisible from my eye, and cast it into the imaginary garbage can. “Aneeyo,” he says, firmly. “Not the away.”

After another heroic round of Optical Charades, I am able to ascertain that I can wear these for three months, and—thanks to the miracle of health insurance—it only costs me 30,000 won. On top of this, I’ve put the eye thing behind me, and I’m already looking forward to getting home and getting behind the wheel of my old Volkwagon and not having to face the choice between clarity of vision with snow blindness, or not squinting into the sun, but taking road signs on faith. There’s something to be said for facing fears.

written by  alli_ockinga on August 26, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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