Sometimes when the moment comes I don't know it

Well alright! This spent a lot more time in the legal department than originally planned, but hey! here it is. It stretches 6 typed pages so go get your slippers on make a nice cup of tea, your going to be here a while. I hope it’s worth your while.

When first conceived, this blog was meant to serve certain role; it would be my way of sharing all the great experiences that were inevitably going to happen to me while in Korea. Of course it must be this way. I’ve come halfway across the world, great experiences and thus great stories are my right. So far the best that I’ve come up with is eating at the janitor’s house. In hindsight I should have known better; rarely are things the way you expect. I joined the Army for, what seems like now, rather odd reasons. I don’t remember expecting much but ended up living through moments that were more intensely fun than just about any I’ve had since. I joined the Peace Corps with ideas of grandeur in my head and visions of my own greatness. I quickly learned I’m not great and I didn’t do great things, but I loved it none the less. What turned out to be great events were little things like seeing friends, cooking a meal, and getting mail. To choose between the two, Korea is more like the Peace Corps than the Army.

I really have enjoyed writing the stories I’ve written, it brings back memories and beats the hell out of watching lots of TV. TV is my nemesis; it sucks me in but leaves me so empty afterwards. All this presents a bit of a problem, I want to write but don’t have much to write about; that is if I limit myself to Korean affairs. Well you obviously know what’s coming next; I’m not going to limit myself to Korean affairs. There are lots of stories that could be written down. I’ll just wait around and see what’s on my mind and get to work.

At this point I think a disclaimer is in order. Some of these stories will contain alcohol and drug use. I did it, some of it I regret some of it I don’t. It did happen and was a part of some of the big moments of my life. I in no way want to advocate for their usage and it’s not my intention to glamorize their usage; I’ve experienced too much in life to ever do that. With that said I think one of the dumbest things older people can do is to play off to younger people as if these things never happened. They know they did and you make yourself look like a fool and young people have more than enough fools in their lives. Life certainly is about the experiences.

The first of these stories will be how I met Carl.

I first met Carl way back at Christmas time, 1990. I was home on leave from the Army with a lot in my head. I was very excited to come home; things were getting crazy back in Germany. Have you ever had one of those experiences where, despite your best efforts, you just get the math all wrong? Back when I joined the Army I was very sure I didn’t want to go to war; which, when you think of it, makes joining the Army a pretty odd decision. “Well I don’t know what to do, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to go to war. Hmmm what can I do? I could always join the Army; yeah, yeah I could do that.” My great piece of creative logic and rationalization went like this; if we go to war it’s going to be against the Russians and if that happens it will be World War III and everyone will end up getting drafted anyway. Put all that together and joining the Army seemed down right logical.

Let’s get back to those crazy times in Germany. Saddam Hussain (R.I.P) had invaded Kuwait (I really never saw that coming and it really fucked up my whole plan). It looked like we were going to war and all the stupid Peter Jennings, Dan Rather specials were telling us how it was going to be a long, tough fight. There were rumors starting in early December that all leaves were going to be canceled and an even worse rumor that if we did go to war, nobody was getting out of the Army until after it was over (and, it bears repeating, it was suppose to be a long war). The one was bad, the other was absolutely terrible. Screw Christmas, sure I wanted to go, but I had spent two and a half years dreaming about getting out of the Army and now my dreams were crashing helplessly before me. It was really too much for an immature 21 year old to handle.

I spent the weeks prior to leaving holding my breath and nervously monitoring the news. When the rumor proved false and the day arrived, I snuck off to the Frankfurt airport, looked over both shoulders and quietly got the hell out of there.

I’ve never really liked flying, it’s a physically uncomfortable experience, but I’ve always been able to mentally separate and let my mind detangle. On a plane you’re either coming or going and being in between is a perfect time to dream.

Back then I was always excited about going home and, as some of you know, Christmas was absolute magic to me. I remember looking at Sear’s and J.C. Penny’s catalogs as a little kid. I remember waking up way early with my brother Dan and almost peeing myself due to the excitement (sadly Dan actually did pee himself on several occasions). Most of that is gone now. I still fake it and go to Christmas parties and drag students around the school singing Christmas carols, but it’s gone. I do however still like the music, the movies, and the cartoons, all of which still have the idealism that is absolutely lacking from whichever lame Christmas gathering I end up going to. Idealism in my case is completely out of reach.

The Christmas of 1990 was also the first in awhile where the family would be altogether again. A few years earlier my brother Mike had joined the Air Force, my brother Matt followed by joining the Army, a decision I somehow copied, and my brother Dan rounded it out by joining the Marines. That makes for a lot of people in a lot of places, but Christmas 1990 was different.

Seeing my brother Matt again was biggest in my mind. When he finished his Army experience and left Germany we didn’t part on the best of terms for reasons ranging from a girl to my lame attempt at independence. Throughout high school I never really wanted a lot of friends and had no use for being in the “cool” group; I’m sure they had their fun but I wasn’t drawn. I was more than happy hanging out with my brother Matt who had friends, sometimes lots of them and many of the cool type, but I don’t believe they were ever really deep or really strong friendships; I think we both look to each other for that.

One of the places Matt dragged me during my visit home was to the house of this new friend of his, named Carl. It was obvious to me that Matt was excited about new-friend Carl, he said he was a nice guy and that I’d like him. Obviously my brother was overlooking or ignorant of the fact that, at the time, I rarely liked anyone upon first meeting them; a real character flaw of mine at the time, one that would stand true once again.

I was taken to a house in the not-so-good part of town. It was a split-level duplex. We climbed a long staircase to the upper level and entered a room filled with people. Great! a bunch of people I don’t know and don’t really want to know; I was certainly going to have a good time here, wasn’t I? The scene was something to see, it was like a pee-wee flophouse for the junior wing of the Greatful Dead fan club. And when I say flophouse I mean flophouse, the place had that leaving-is-optional look to it. Don’t want to go home? Just find a place to lie, nobody will mind.

My brother Matt entered and was well received. I tried to enter quietly, but there was really no chance of that; visually I didn’t fit in. While I may not have wanted to be IN the Army, at some level I still LOOKED like someone in the Army and looking like someone in the Army was not a description that was going to describe anyone else in the house. There was long hair, there was the I-smoke-a-lot-of-dope unkemptness and a, strange-to-me, everybody’s happy feel to the place; none of which you’ll find in an Army barracks.

Matt found a chair and like an out of its element puppy I stayed close to his side. Soon Carl came over and I was introduced and introduced enthusiastically; I remember that well, a sign of the bond my brother and I had. My first impressions weren’t good; he was a small wiry guy with dark hair everywhere. He went out of his way to be nice to me and the three of us talked for awhile. I would later learn he really wasn’t going out of his way on this occasion; he’s like that with most everyone. The house was full with people and yet this Carl character stayed around talking to us for quite awhile; maybe my brother and he were pretty good friends. I can’t believe he was staying around because of all the interesting things I had to say, cause believe me I didn’t have many interesting things to say that night.

I was trapped in one of those uncomfortable positions; I was some where I really didn’t want to be and had no real way of changing that. I came with my brother and would be stuck leaving with him and he was having a good time so who knows when that would be. This experience and many more like it eventually taught me to never carpool to a party, always bring your car. If you must take something away from this story, take that.

I really never thought I’d have much to do with the guy again, but boy was that wrong. My next encounter with him would come 5 or 6 months later. There were some happy developments in between that made it all possible. “Desert Storm” was a pretty quick storm so by the end of April I was out of Germany and out of the Army. I made it home was back in my Mom’s house with my brother Matt either their or at our Dad’s; we Peterson’s had a hard time leaving the nest. When I got back I hung out with my brother all the time and soon Carl was back in the picture.

The night started uneventful enough, I had been invited to go to the movie with my brother and his new girlfriend, Gina. Meeting us there was to be Carl and possibly others. Who picked the movie I don’t know, but I’m absolutely sure it wasn’t me; it was one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen and surely would have been completely forgotten if not for later events. It was probably my brother Matt, he was definitely one to do whatever it took to make a new girlfriend think he was sensitive or whatever else you hope a new girlfriend thinks of you. He was actually pretty good at it, so for him to sit through the movie probably wasn’t a problem; for the rest of us it was going to be a problem. The movie starred Matt Dillon and Sean Young. Matt Dillon was in “Rumble Fish” and “The Outsiders”, the movie they used to make you watch back in 8th grade after you read the book by S.E. Hilton or somebody. Those were huge roles for a young actor so maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Well that was wrong, it was bad; he obviously was going through one of those mid-career low points due to some type of addiction. All I remember of the movie is the two of them get married and it’s obvious one is going to try to kill the other and throughout the movie you’re made to believe she’s the sketchy one, but then at the end she see’s something written on the side of one of the boxcars of a train that’s passing by which triggers some great remembrance and we now know that he’s really trying to kill her so she takes evasive action and blah, blah, blah… A movie that truly let’s you know that the people who make movies think Americans are idiots.

The movie is over, its summer and therefore the night is early, so we decide to go back to Carl’s apartment and hang out. Gina being rather young has to go home. Having just gotten out of the Army a week or two ago I didn’t have a car, so it’s decided I will go with Carl while my brother Matt takes Gina home and meets us later.

A monumental first is about to occur

For the first time in my life I am about to ride in Carl’s Buick Regal, the type of fine American sedan us children of the 70’s came of age in. A piece of shit yes, but a piece of shit with spirit and character; many a drives were taken in that car. I even remember going to the Chicago Jazz fest in it one year. It began overheating while stuck in traffic on an overpass, forcing us to turn the heat on. There we were driving through downtown Chicago in the middle of summer with the heat and blowers going full tilt. I remember trying to sleep in that car the very same night in a parking garage because we were too poor for a hotel. It was a classic. You’re probably not a good American unless you’ve owned a car you’ve loved.

Carl and I arrive at his apartment which was right downtown on 6th St. above a travel agency and across from Monument Square. It’s one of those oddly shaped downtown apartments with rooms either way too large or way too small. I’ve never been much of a conversationalist especially around people I don’t really know so things were a bit awkward. We began telling stories we’re forced to tell because sitting around not saying anything would be even more awkward than they already are. My stories were about the Army and his were about things I’ve long since forgotten. It’s discovered we both like Bob Dylan so The Concert for Bangladesh is placed on the turntable. I ain’t lying, there really was a turntable; he was one of the few people in Racine who not only HAD a turntable, but had a vinyl copy of “The Concert for Bangladesh” to put on it. This definitely helps. My mood is lifted; conversation is a bit easier and a bit freer. Carl get’s up, goes to where ever it is he needs to go, and asks if I want to smoke a joint.

Much goes through my head in a short period of time; I never really liked smoking pot and having just gotten out of the Army, haven’t done it in a long time. Don’t get me wrong, its not as if nobody in Army got high, plenty did but I wasn’t one of them. I remember many a time sitting in someone’s room sharing conversation while they smoked hash out a crumbled Coke can. I was more than content getting really drunk, which seemed pretty socially acceptable to the Army; they certainly weren’t going to kick you out for getting drunk.

Should I, shouldn’t I, should I, shouldn’t I? I’ll do it. We light it up and begin. At first things were really alright. I felt tingly and was really kind of amazed it wasn’t having more effect than it was. However saying yes was a bit like opening the flood gates because as soon as one was finished another was produced. Not feeling too bad, I went along.

A new situation, music is playing, conversation has somewhat run its course, what do you do now? You play cards. I’m pretty sure it was crazy 8’s, and I’m only pretty sure because it was right about this time I started to lose it, and by IT I mean all sense. I think I made it through the first game but by the second things had gotten really weird, I was losing touch; my head began to ring and the straight lines in my mind suddenly became waves. It took all my strength and concentration to play a card game and soon even that was lost. I struggled as hard as I could to keep in the game, but without even realizing it I would drift away. Suddenly I would snap back to consciousness when I hear Carl say “it’s your turn”; by this point I’m so gone I don’t even know when it’s my turn to play in a two person card game.

I don’t know what happens to other people when they smoke, but what happens to me is quite overwhelming. I lose all sense of time, I can’t tell a minute from an hour from a day; a completely bizarre feeling I’ve never experienced with any other drug. Some people may enjoy this but it scares the hell out of me; I’m a bit of a control freak. Worst of all it completely nullifies my best coping mechanism. Whenever I’ve done too much and am feeling low, I always tell myself “it’s O.K., just ride it out, time will make everything alright” Of course when you’ve lost all sense of time this becomes very hard to do; it’s really the only time in my life when I genuinely get paranoid.

The game is mercifully over, a great relief to me. Right at the height of my relief, Carl asks “do you want to play another game?” “No” is all I say, short, simple and probably quite perplexing to him. I’m relieved but I’ve yet to reach the zenith and without the game to concentrate on, I completely lose it. I’m sitting in a chair and the walls start moving in and fading out. Yes, I’m paranoid now and just sit in my chair and close my eyes; I’m checking out.

As I sit there I’m only partially aware of what’s going on around me. My next memory is realizing people are starting to collect in the room. Going over to a friend’s house and finding some strange guy sitting catatonic in a chair must make for quite a scene; and in a very far away, through the fog kind of way, I realize they are talking about me with Carl giving some kind of explanation. I don’t know how long I sat there, but eventually I come back to the world and open my eyes. I feel like a sea-sick survivor, it’s not all back yet but I know I’ve come through. I believe eventually my brother Matt did show up and I’m sure I took great comfort in that.

The reason this story is so endearing to me is because everything that has happened since seems so unlikely. We’ve had many, many good times since then and became very good friends; but because of me, it almost didn’t happen. I was, in my detached way, very reluctant when I first met Carl and I find it hard to believe it ever went beyond the I-got-mind-blowingly-high in his living room story. I felt out of place and didn’t say much at the makeshift house party, despite his obvious efforts to be nice. The next time I hang out with him I turn to mush in his chair. What kind of an impression must have I made?

We are all good and bad in our own ways and hopefully with time we erase some of the bad in us. One of Carl’s true goods is his acceptance and niceness to the people he meets, quite the opposite of the way I was at that time in my life; in this respect we’re friends today because of him. I’ve turned much of that around; I actually like people now.

Well I think we’ve come full circle. I started this out talking about how things turn out different then you think. The blog was conceived for one purpose but used for another, I thought the Army would stink (it did) but had so many fun times, I thought the Peace Corps would be a laugh a minute but it turned out to be rather quiet (in a good quiet kind of way); it’s never how it first seems. And finally another, I was totally unsold on Carl when I first met him but 17 years later he’s still around.

Boy I tell you all this nostalgic talk of Buick Regal’s and benefit albums is bringing back the memories; I’ll share one recommendation with you. You really must go out and find a copy of the film “Action Jackson”; it stars Apollo Creed from the Rocky movies and has been a conversation piece between Carl and I for a long, long time. This might not make sense to you but I once almost remodeled my basement soley because of this movie; ask me about it the next time you see me.

Man, maybe I could make a living out of these "when I first met" stories. If you're tired of reading about people you don't know let me know, I'll whip up a first impressions story about you, but no hard feelings. I might not have liked you when I first met you.

This coming weekend I'm taking a travel to some famous mountain here in Korea. There has to be a blog entery in there somewhere; at the very least some pictures.

Finally (and I really mean finally this time), Karl has promised to share his thoughts and recollections on these events in the “comments” section below; check it out.

Its a world of laughter, a world of tears...

It has been awhile; I realize that and when you’re made to wait you expect something big or good in return. I don’t know if this is going to cut it in that regard; think of this more as a quick little something. I have actually just finished my longest post to date, but it needed to be sent out to the legal division to be OK’ed. Yes the blog has gotten that big; not only do I have a legal office, I also have an office of motivational affairs which basically consists of people sending nasty messages complaining about a lack of action. I’m actually thinking about opening a merchandising office and selling T shirts, they could say

I read
Chapter 7

Then again maybe it should be something more. I wonder if Brian Fry is reading this, he’s been my go to guy for T shirt designs. Maybe we should have a T shirt design contest with the winner receiving a free T shirt and a hearty acknowledgement here on the blog. Post a comment below if it’s just words, if you come up with some big design, email it to me. Joey yours needs to have some sort of NASA reference in it. Maybe something like

NASA only takes me so high
CHAPTER 7
takes it from there

(Yes I do have a friend who works for NASA; I think he’s the guy who decides what music gets pumped into the space shuttle. If you have some ideas let me know I’ll see if I can pull some strings)

Okay we should probably get to today’s story or else this thing could turn into another 5 page monstrosity. The events concerned happened yesterday so everything is fresh in my head.

It was a busy day at Osan Air Base, it was homecoming day for Osan High School as well as AIR POWER day and the first time the base was open to the public since 9/11. I drove the car in early to beat the crowd, parked over by school figuring the other side of base would be crawling with people and then walked over to the fitness center to get fit. Afterwards I was hungry and decided to go on over and get something for lunch. I was feeling full of pep after my workout and was seated at a both just past the hostess; as seats go this was a pretty good one. Almost immediately upon being seated I notice the woman at the next booth staring me down hard, I mean really hard, uncomfortably hard. I figured she must know I just got done working out and gave her a silent hi along with a hand in the air, no movement wave. During this I realized she looked very familiar in a very-familiar-but-I-don’t-know-who-you-are sort of way. I figured it will soon end and begin looking at the menu. Suddenly not only is she staring at me but her daughter, who’s back was to me, has now turned around and is staring at me too.

Another possible T shirt slogan, this one goes back to my Oakland roots

Sorry Miss Jackson
I read Chapter 7

Caught by surprise I pretend not to notice and blankly stare at my menu while trying figure out who this person is. Maybe she’s a parent and the girl is a student at the school? No that can’t be, the girl is maybe 10, she’s not in middle school yet. Think damn it, think! Oh no, I hear something,
“Is your name Kevin?” Holy shit she knows my name.
“Yes, yes it is.”
“How do I know you?”
Alright Peterson, time to throw out your best line; oh shit what is my best line? Oh yeah I remember.
“Well, I have lived on 4 continents”

(For full disclosure that last part never happened, we’ll pick it back up at “How do I know you?”)

Suddenly it all comes back to me in a brilliant flash, much like on a soap opera when some old character that has been gone for 10 years returns because they’ve found out the hard way they’re not really a good actor and a soap opera will have to do.

“You were in the Army, in Germany”, I say remembering her; we were both in the same unit.
“Yes, blah, blah, blahhh blah blahhhh…” After “yes” I kind of stopped listening; I was kind of in shock.

This T shirt slogan is inspired by a T shirt we made in the Peace Corps (this one is less sarcastic)

CHAPTER 7
Frankly, it never disappoints


It’s been 17 years and we’re on a completely different continent, but I end up sitting in the next booth to someone I was in the Army with; small world. (Holy shit again, every time I go into Chili’s something big happens. Why aren’t I eating there more often?)

I’m invited over to her table and we turn the wheels back and start throwing around names we haven’t heard in decades.

Sgt Dumford, she tells me he’s dead; he was a chain smoking no-filter-having fiend who everyone liked, but smoking will do you in. I give her Harney, and Crane and Clyne and Groves, Montoya and Pack. She gives me Ray, and Sadler and some others I’ve already forgotten. She also tells me Capt. Wilcox is now Colonel Wilcox which is something of a relief to me because I really thought we may have ruined his career with some of the stupid shit we did. I honestly figured they had sent him to Alaska to guard some radar site against the reindeer. This always weighed on my mind heavily (OK I’m exaggerating) because I was his driver when he first came to 10th Chem. and he was nice to me. Ahhh I remember many a naps were taken in that old pre-Humvee Chevy Blazer. He would go to some meeting and I would drop the seat back and go to sleep. Of course all this was happening while my friends were out doing something dumb in front of people who had to pretend it was important.

The story gets even better because she ended up marrying a guy who was also in 10th Chem. at the time, Chris Brown who happened to be at the Homecoming football game watching their son play. After we ate we walked over and I got to bring back memories with him who is now a helicopter pilot, a long way from being the mechanic I knew him as in our 10th Chem. days.

And this is yet another example of my being there at the very beginning. A few years back Joey and I went down to Big Sur, California to see our Peace Corps friend Scott get married. He married a girl named Heather who was also in our group in New Guinea. Despite the fact some lame-o friends of Scott tried to run us out of the wedding, Joey and I took comfort in the fact we were there at the beginning unlike these so called friends who came along when the going was good.

And how about Joey and Neelima? Shit, they wouldn’t even know each other if it wasn’t for me; something for which I’ve never received the credit I’m due. When we all lived in Concord it went like this, Neelima’s room, Kevin’s room, Joey’s room. When I left and that buffer was gone, a force took over only I was strong enough to keep at bay.

Matt and Lori? I guess I was sort of around at the beginning. I’ll admit I didn’t have much to do with that one. Now if Matt had married Jackie or what ever the hell that girl’s name was whom Matt took to the Glen Velez concert, then I could truly say I was there at the beginning.

My brother Dan and Debbie? No I wasn’t there for that one, but I was there when Dan showed up with her at my grandma’s house. It was my Mom’s birthday party and Dan was about 2 hours late. My grandma was pissed and just laid into Debbie, OUCH. Debbie probably still needs a little ice to with that burn.

All this is another great reason for me not to get married; I’m so good at making it happen for others and if I were married when would I have time to keep that going?

Alright this is a wrap. This may be the first post that was completed in one sitting. Whew, I don’t know what this means but even my short postings are taking 3 pages. All of you better be appreciating this.

Check back real soon, the next major story will be posted on Tuesday.

Don’t forget about our T shirt contest, I’m telling you this is a million dollar idea. It’s gold I tell you, gold!

Favorite Chapter?
Why Chapter 7
Of Course

Sometimes things really do start with a bang

Sometimes things really do start with a bang…BANG… a flashing pumpkin on the end of a pen greets me, followed by a giggle; all before I ever hear a word from my waitress. The pen had been whacked onto the table and through the joys of science has caused the smiling pumpkin on the end to light up and flash; nothing you’d expect out of a routine sit down at a restaurant, let alone your midafternoon trip to the local Chili’s on some Air Force base somewhere in Korea. The giggle belongs to Alyssa, my waitress, which is something of an oddity in itself seeing as there aren’t too many Korean girls named Alyssa; here you get names like So-Ri or Juen Li or even Hye Kwong; never Alyssa.

I won’t lie to you, this isn’t the first time I’ve been to Chili’s. When I first arrived and was holed up in the base hotel, I came here quite a bit. It’s right in the heart of the base, across from the BX and library, next to the movie theater and in front of the hotel; you really can’t miss it. I know how it is, when you hear someone you know is going to some far off place, you really hope they don’t spend all their time eating at McDonald’s and IHOP; or in this case Chili’s. It was a moment of weakness. I had actually just been off base surrounded by local restaurants, but had to come back on base to pull money out of the ATM which would then be taken back off base and given to the insurance company. It was time to get car insurance; my car has been sitting in Seoul for a week and it was probably time I went and got it; $500 FLYING out of my wallet. It’s a bit depressing, money FLYING out of my wallet here, money FLYING out of my wallet there. When will it end? Starting over can be expensive. My plan had just failed, there is a limit on how much you can withdraw in a day and I had just attempted to surpass that limit. I could certainly still go off base and eat, but what’s the point; screw it, I’ll just go to Chili’s. Instead of bo-kim-bop or bulgolgi, I’ll get a hamburger. And even though I’ve given up french fries, fries will come with the burger, I’ll eat a few, think they’re nasty, and regret the whole thing.

Then again do we ever really know what to expect?

BANG… pumpkin starts flashing, a giggle is heard and Alyssa appears. You can’t just let that go. You don’t whack your pen on a table, make it light up, laugh and then dispassionately ask for someone’s order. It’s not the laws of physics but it’s certainly the laws of sanity. Crazy people do that and I honestly think there aren’t too many crazy people in Korea; they’re all back in the states. Who knows maybe in Korean society crazy people are quietly “taken care of”. Perhaps they’re taken to the North. Alyssa tells me that she got her pen at the biggest amusement park in Korea and that it cost $6.00, that that’s too expensive, and then produces a skeleton pen. From the looks of it this one doesn’t light up.

This is all a bit sudden for me, a second ago I was worrying why my foot hurt, why my money keeps leaving me, and when I’m going to find time tomorrow to get back to the insurance place (and once again, give them a bunch of my money). In times like these the mind doesn’t work too fast. A pumpkin, a skeleton, hhhmmmm? “Do you have a witch pen?”…. That’s what I came up with it. If I had a moment to think I would have laughed pretty hard in my head. Witch pen? Who am I, Homer Simpson? But hey whether it’s a teaspoon or a tablesaw, you can still get started; you just have to have the heart.

Alyssa has been my waitress before and I suddenly remember the bubbliness that goes along with a Korean girl who adopts an American name while working at a chain restaurant on an Air Force base in Asia. And yes, in case you’re wondering, and come on, who are we kidding, of course you’re wondering; she is good looking. If she wasn’t there wouldn’t even be a story to tell, would there? If there was it would go something like this: unattractive waitress acts weird, I efficiently minimize all but the most necessary contact (something I can be quite good at), I eat my food, pay my bill and leave. Life sure isn’t fair and it never will be. I’ve long stopped worrying about that.

It’s not prime eating time; it’s probably around 4:00 and Chili’s would need to be twice as full to even be half full. All this means there is not a lot for a waitress to do, but you have to do something and Alyssa has chosen to talk to me. I learn she is a college student and this is her part-time job. She is studying to be an airline stewardess. As I think now, this should have seemed a bit odd. My brother Dan was an airline steward(ess) for a brief summer and he never did much studying. (I’ll someday have to tell you about the sweet, cheap tickets he got me to San Francisco the summer before last; before the flight home I had a sweet 21 hour stay at the San Francisco airport before saying “screw it” and buying a ticket home on another airline). In any event, Alyssa is studying Chinese, Japanese, and English. At this point Alyssa is doing most of the talking, which is OK because, like I said, she’s good looking. It does dawn on me that eventually I’m going to have to say something or else she’s going to leave which would be bad because, once again, she’s good looking.

As I think I’ve mentioned in a previous posting, one of the true guiding ideas in my life is “when in doubt, do nothing”. I got this from reading War and Peace while in the Peace Corps. Ahhh Joey and I had many a discussion on the simple beauty and effectiveness of those words. It doesn’t sound right, we Americans always want to go out and strangle all our problems, but maybe we got it wrong; after all doctors are told to “first do no harm” which isn’t all that far away from “when in doubt, do nothing”.

The situation I was in was one where this core belief wouldn’t do; I had to say something. “When in doubt, do nothing” not going to work, better move on to the next one. “When in doubt, do the obvious” or in this case, “when in doubt, say the obvious”. I’ve just been told she’s studying three different languages; one of them is English… “You speak very good English”. Can’t get more obvious than that; it’s not really even true, but it will buy me some time. “No, English is hard, I don’t have a tutor”. Holy shit, it did work, the opening is now there. Oh no, danger. The other waitstaff are giving her looks; we’ve both noticed them, she’s going to have to go. This is a bit of a problem because I’m done eating and now is the time in the sequence where the diner gets the check and leaves; of course I have to actually get the check in order for this to occur.

Alyssa is not coming over for conversations, but is quite frequently coming by, collecting my glasses and refilling them. This goes on for quite awhile which is a bit odd. It’s obvious I’m done, the basket is mostly empty (except for the nasty fries, why in the hell did I get them?), my napkins are crumpled up and thrown on top; classic bring-me-the-check signs; except she seems to be refusing to bring the check and somehow justifying this with refill after refill after refill. I’m actually OK with this, it’s quite obvious to me the decision has been made; there is a reason I continue to sit here. There is one slight problem. My usual beverage order consists of a glass of water and a sprite. Here at Chili’s, like so many other places, they put lemon in the water. This bothers me on some level, I actually like the taste of water; the fruit kind of ruins it for me. I solve the problem by transferring the lemon to my sprite; it’s a lemon-lime soda and thus a perfect compliment. The problem is, as Alyssa quickly passes by and swoops up my half-full glasses, there is no time to tell here what I’ve done and thus I get water in my Sprite and Sprite in my water.

Look at me, sitting here (have been sitting here) drinking varying degrees of watered down soda all because I have a good looking waitress. Is this sadness or is it simply a force too strong to resist?

My phone rings, my ride home (my I-don’t-have-to-pay-$5.00-for-a-cab) ride home calls and let’s me know she’ll be in the BX parking lot in 10 minutes. I can’t leave yet, I didn’t sit here for 15 minutes drinking what I’ve been drinking just to get up and leave now. I signal for Alyssa and with that sad, I-don’t-want-to-but-I-have-to look, I say “I have to goooo. But hey, if you need help with your English, I’ll help you.” A little part of me was quietly laughing the whole time I was speaking; laughing and saying “you’re an idiot”. Isn’t it funny how you can have two completely different things going on inside of you at the same time? Alyssa agrees, this would be a good idea. I rustle through my backpack, find a scrap of paper, and write down my number.

Fried eggs, kim chi, and a mysterious jar

It all just sort of fell together tonight; almost to the point where I’m thinking of giving up planning all together. It started as I arrived back at school after picking up some milk from the commissary (with milk going for $3.00 a half gallon, one of the only real extravagances I’ve bowed to over here. I just can’t give up cereal; as a counterweight cereal is dirt cheap, I can get a box of Count Chocula for $1.70). It was late and as I entered I could see my friend Mr. Lee the custodian. Suddenly the lights in the hall went out and we greeted each other in the dark. My reason for returning to school was to collect my bags and packages (it was a good day at the post office) and head across the street to catch a cab home. As we parted he said “it late, you go home”. To this I silently agreed and for no real reason besides just wanting to be nice I replied “are you done with work too?” Even though his English isn’t great, he got the implied message that I wasn’t trying to imply and said “Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, I give you ride home. I’ll be right back, you wait here.” After putting it all together myself I smiled, I was lugging around a back pack, a large duffle bag with packages and a grocery bag so a ride home was sounding right on, and best of all, this would mean I would go the entire day without shelling out for a taxi between work and home (it was my neighbor’s turn to pay the morning fare).

Of course nothing is ever as simply as it appears and I soon found myself joining a daisy chain of people heading toward his car; before we’d be off to my apartment we had to drop off three mama-sans at the front gate. When we arrived at the gate, Mr. Lee said he’d be right and headed off with the cleaning ladies. He was soon back and we were off. Once again with no motive besides comforting small talk, I asked him “where is your house from here?” He once again read what was there to read and replied “Oh I show you my house, I take you”. This was met with mixed feeling on my behalf, it had been a long day and I certainly wanted to get home, but I was curious to see the inside of a Korean house having only ever been inside the places they build with us (and our government’s dollars in mind). In the end it didn’t matter, I knew the die had been cast and I knew where the car was headed.

If you’ve ever been to a China town you know the scene, narrow roads, lots of cars and lots of people. Mr. Lee’s apartment was on the top floor of a three story building. As we remove our shoes and enter we are of course met by his wife, a small, strong woman with a permanent scowl. She speaks no English and I speak no Korean which always makes for a somewhat awkward experience; you throw in the scowl and my nature of not wanting to upset anyone and the experience becomes doubly so. Korean society seems to be of the more male dominated variety, so I figured she was going to be nice to me in a there’s-no-real-way-for-us-to-communicate kind of way (I just hoped she wasn’t cursing me under her breath).

Mr. Lee was one of the first persons who were really nice to me when I got here to Osan Air Base. I had it in my head there would be someone, maybe several people, waiting for me upon my arrival, perhaps with a large welcoming van and a hearty “welcome to Korea, we’re so glad to have you”. Of course what I got was a searing hot asphalt parking lot and a physically and emotionally draining death march to the base hotel weighed down by 100 lbs of luggage. As you can tell I still haven’t forgiven this place for that; I mean seriously, they knew I had no idea what was going on, surely someone could have been there. This is after all what I’ve always received in the past, the Army had someone waiting when I got off the plane in Germany; even the lightly funded Peace Corps had someone with a pickup waiting. It’s just bad manners, but I suppose we should get back to the story.

When I first wandered onto the school grounds Mr. Lee was there to say hello and show me around. A few days later he loaded me into his car and took me apartment hunting. He’s completely uninhibited and went around to the apartment complexes randomly trying door handles and when we came across a vacant apartment we went in. When we found one we liked he went around until he found someone who knew the landlord and before you know it, I’m sitting in an office surrounded by Koreans talking a blurred streak while I run my eyes across the wall looking for something interesting to look at. The best part about Mr. Lee is he’s always looking for an excuse to go do something besides what he’s probably suppose to be doing; the sort of quiet rebellion the world needs. Man I don’t think there was one day while I was in the Army that I wasn’t thinking about how I could escape this stupid task and go do something else. I turned the 30 minute paperwork run into the hour and a half Kleber Kaserne breakfast/paperwork run every Tuesday and Thursday. The reason I never became a famous scientist is because working in a lab sucks and I was always wandering the hallways or skipping out altogether and going to the Brewer game smuggling beverages inside in my pants; definitely one of my two favorite Brewer games, my Uncle Chris can tell you about the other one. All this side talk which really has nothing to do with the story at hand reminds me I need to someday soon tell you my quiet defiance Peace Corps story involving Joey Rios and his favorite invention the air conditioner.

So we’re in Mr. Lee’s house and he gives me the tour and it’s really actually very nice; more so than I thought for a school custodian. He shows me all the family pictures and tells me about his kids who it seems have done quite well for themselves; in fact his oldest was somehow involved in the construction of his building which is why he has such a nice apartment. I ask Mr. Lee if he is from this part of Korea and he says “Oh no, no, no; I from rice paddy. City people no good, they don’t help each other out.” Two things stuck me, first I loved they way he said he was from the rice paddy; it’s sort of like someone from America saying they’re from the country, just way cooler. Second it made more sense why he was being so nice to me; that’s the way it was for him, how people acted toward others.

Next thing you know we are sitting at the kitchen table and food is about to be served. This is where things start to get interesting. Unfortunately I’m hungry and tired so they’ll have to get interesting tomorrow (usually this is the time I would go scramble a couple of eggs for a nice bedtime meal, but that’s not going to happen tonight for reasons that will become clear shortly)

We are now beginning day 3 of this story, it really must be finished tonight.

After the tour we end up at the kitchen table and start eating these large nut-like things. They have obviously been boiled and once you get inside the shell they taste surprising like a boiled sweet potato. I tell you this with great confidence, as a former Peace Corps volunteer in Papua New Guinea I know many things about the taste of boiled sweet potato (and fried dough, but that’s a whole other story; there is surprising variety to fried balls of dough). I soon learn we have been guided to the table for a reason as Mrs. Lee brings two plates of food to the table; I really would have preferred she had brought three plates and joined us, but Korean society doesn’t seem to work like that. On my plate is some very interesting looking purple rice and two fried eggs. Nature is way more amazing then the average American diner would know. I’m sure most think all rice is white except perhaps the Californians with their commune grown organic brown rice. Purple rice? never would have thought it. Once again this took me back to my Peace Corps days during training when we would all meet up after spending time in our respective villages and you would hear crazy talk like “my family served purple kau kau (sweet potato)”. I didn’t really believe it until I saw it for myself and of the sweet potato varieties, the purple were just about the best. The purple rice was actually quite good, it had little extra purple nuggets in it, almost like flavor crystals or the marshmallows you find in Lucky Charms. The eggs were simply eggs, I do prefer my eggs scrambled and find the fried egg fairly tough to get down, but it was obviously a nice gesture and a free meal on top of it.

As I’ve mentioned earlier in this blog, I’m big into fluids and normally follow every bite of food with a satisfying drink. The problem this time was there was no drink... that is until about half way through the meal. After another round of quick fire verbal Korean between the two, a rather strange looking large jar is brought to the table. The jar has all the hallmarks of the kind you see in science fiction movies containing the brain of some unfortunate soul and is topped with a piece of wax paper held tight by a rubber band. Much like the brain-in-a-jar there is something large lurking inside surrounded by a clear slightly off-colored liquid. Once it is set on the table I can that the thing inside is some kind of root. The make shift top is removed and the liquid is carefully spooned into two glasses. Great care seems to be taken in all aspects of the handling of this jar and its contents. Mr. Lee signals his wife to stop adding to his glass and says he’s driving; he doesn’t however make the same request in regards to my glass.

The reverent treatment, the small glasses, the “I’m driving” comment, it was all coming together; this was some kind of mysterious homemade hooch. Mr. Lee signals to me, we raise the glasses and drink. The texture is somewhat thick and the taste very earthy, almost papery. Surprising and fortunate is the lack of any feeling of harshness I felt sure would follow. It wasn’t that bad, it wasn’t good, but considering the jar it came out of, I was somewhat at ease. The added bonus of it all was I know had something to drink, a real plus considering the fried eggs and the damn fried yokes that came along with them which were starting to test my stomach in a way that if failure occurred, it would be most unfortunate.

What I failed to mention earlier was the reason we ended up at the table in the first place. Before entering his building Mr. Lee showed me his adjacent garden and its multiple leafy contents his wife turns into Kim chi, the most iconic of Korean dishes. My reply was that I hadn’t had Kim chi yet which was all that really needed to be said. Coming from the rice paddy, he assured me his wife made great Kim chi which turned out to be right on the mark.

It was really one of the more all-over-the-place meals I’ve ever eaten: bland rice, stomach churning egg yolks, cold spicy pickled leafs of some kind, and fermented ginseng to wash it down. With each bite the eggs were harder and harder to get down, but I persevered and made it very near the end. This did however come at a price. The continuous sips I was taking from my glass began to lead to a slow wave of disorientation rising up my spine headed straight for my head. I hadn’t mixed alcohol and food so thoroughly since the whiskey waffles I used to make in the Army.

Now I’ve been drunk before but this was something strangely different. It was a very warm almost trippy feeling and it slowly flowed over my head like a warm blanket. This was no ordinary blanket with the standard scene of flowers or racing stallions, this was a warm blanket with a picture of old men and giraffes sitting together on top of a felt table laughing; it really made no sense and my mind couldn’t seem to wrap itself around it.

The newness of the experience made it all the more baffling. I really didn’t want to get drunk let alone looped into a world I’d never been. There is I guess two ways to handle a situation like this, you can mentally fight the oncoming rush or you go along for the ride. I thought to myself what w ould my friends do in such a situation? What would Geisler do? Well the answer to that is pretty obvious. What would Rios do? Completely different answer but just as obvious (now if I was on an international flight, things would be a bit more uncertain). Nope, I was on my own here. I chose to fight, but there really is no guarantee you’ll win. I distinctly remember putting up just such a fight many years ago while listening to the Concert for Bangladesh and playing cards with some guy named Matt who would later become my friend. I lost that fight like no fight has ever been lost in the history of the world. I sat there half catatonic having no idea when it was my turn to lay down a card. This time was different, I felt aware and hopeful about my situation. There was only one stumbling block in my way; only one but a fairly big one, the half full glass in front of me I knew would have to be finished.

Suddenly my heart began to sink; coming toward me in dazed slow motion was a frying pan full of fried eggs. The spatula came out and two freshly greased fried eggs were carefully placed on my plate followed closely by another helping of purple rice. The site alone of all that food on my plate was nauseating, but I was aware enough to know I had no choice; it had to be eaten. I began to swirl the rice with my fork and then swirl it some more, just because you know something must be done doesn’t make it easy to do. I eventually got to work and each bite was once again followed by a sip from the glass I wanted desperately to avoid.

By this time my mind and my stomach were completely out of synch, my minding seeing weird things and wondering if it should fight till the end, or just let go and see where it was taken. My stomach on the other hand was engaged in a slow churn, every bite of egg was forcing the contents of my stomach further and further into my throat. At was at this point I knew something must be done; going down meekly is not something I’ve ever subscribed to.

My big break came when Mr. Lee got up, walked to the edge of the kitchen and began speaking to his wife. It was obvious the rest of this drink had to go, but where? I could pour it into Mr. Lee’s glass; that wouldn’t work, he made a big production of finishing his drink. Time was surely running out and I was completely at a loss… until I stretched my head around the corner and looked into the living room. Sitting right at the junction of the two rooms allowed me arm’s length access to the living room. As luck would have it there was an aquarium nearby. Now before you jump to any conclusions, I didn’t dump it into the fish tank. Standing next to the tank was what looked like a cylindrical garbage can. As I peered at it I only see the inside of the top portion and was unsure whether it was actually a garbage can or a storage container of some sort. Looking back at Mr. Lee and ensuring he was preoccupied, I leaned over as far as I could for a better look. About midway down there appeared to be discarded tissue paper; I couldn’t see to the bottom and therefore be sure, but with the situation critical it would have to do. I quickly grabbed the glass, leaned over and let fly into the garbage can. The whole time this was happening I had vivid thoughts of the time, years ago, when I was out with my friends Matt and Lori Geisler who both wanted very much to do a shot which I wanted no part of. The pressure put on me was annoying so I said I’d do it, but when the time came to throw it down, I threw it over my shoulder instead. Of course I was totally busted by Lori and it still comes up in conversation from time to time. The deed was done; I quickly returned the glass to the table and was comforted to find Mr. Lee oblivious to it all.

Mr. Lee eventually returned to the table and normal eating activity was resumed. By this time I was picking at my food, crying inside with the thought of more fried egg. I then noticed something horrible. As I has eaten this second helping and neatly yet subconsciously eaten around the yolks and was now left with a pile of rice and two neatly excavated fried yolks; the rice was of no concern, that could be downed without a blush. The yolks on the other hand would never in a million years stay down. Brilliant thoughts suddenly entered my head. I had been in this situation before and came out the other end. When much younger and eating at our Dad’s, my brothers Matt and Dan and I made a true art out of concealing food we didn’t want to eat. This is the route I would have to take. My mood lightened and I even chuckled internally as I thought of the Seinfeld episode where he stashes mutton into his jacket.

With swift smooth motion a napkin is transferred from the table to my lap; man I was still good at this; quiet defiance, once again the hallmark of my life. I suddenly felt strong and invincible. I comfortably returned to talking to Mr. Lee, waiting and watching. Every time he looked away I smoothly transferred yolk from plate to napkin; after a few waves of the hand the task was complete. The napkin was neatly folded and tucked into a pocket and triumph was mine. The anxiety I felt was gone, I was able to relax and enjoy the disorientation I had so recently fought.

In retrospect I understand why I couldn’t say no and I understand and appreciate the generosity that was shown to me. I was later told by another that the serving of ginseng was something of an honor; you didn’t do this for the casual guest. And of course life isn’t about getting even with those that have helped you but rather bringing it forward to those you are about to deal with. With this in mind when I get a place of my own I want to be just like Mr. Lee; whatever I have will be on offer and fried eggs will be served in abundance.

p.s. I don’t make Kim chi so don’t expect any

Holy hell, I can’t believe it took me 5 pages and thirty-four hundred words to tell this story. I seriously need an editor

Bad moods, dream jobs, and good principals

If all were well I’d be sleeping, but I’m not for see this is my first night in Joy Palace and my palace of joy is offering no joy in the form of sleep. I just moved into my new apartment earlier this afternoon and I must admit I’m having extreme hotel withdrawal. It was bound to happen considering my irrational love of hotels, but it probably wouldn’t be so bad if I had a decent bed to sleep on. I think the Koreans were only given half the story because their beds are nothing than box springs. Sometimes if you’re lucky they stack them for you and you get box spring on top of box spring. This could play into Korea not being a big holiday destination for western families. Dealing with your kid’s concussion the first night after a round of bed jumping is not the ideal vacation experience. I do have an air mattress but pulling it out and dealing with it seems like too much work at the moment.

Well it’s the next night and I’ll have you know I did indeed pull out the air mattress and it turned out to be the decision of the day because I was actually comfortable enough to sleep. I do think I need to go back and add to a little of what was said last night. Everybody has their dream job and everybody’s dream job tends toward the glamorous: astronaut, professional rock climber, neurosurgeon, etc… I’m no different and for the longest time my dream job was U.S. ambassador to Papua New Guinea. While over there we actually got to meet the ambassador, a rather tall woman with a striking resemblance to Janet Reno. I always thought wanting to be ambassador of PNG was a pretty shrewd pick. I’d get to go back to PNG, I’d get to live way up on a hill in Port Moresby in a house surrounded by an 8 ft. restraining wall topped with swirl upon swirl of razor wire. It’s PNG so there probably wouldn’t be a lot of competition among the diplomatic corps. Best of all it’s totally a job I could handle, the U.S. has next to no interest in PNG; we’ve for the most part pawned it off on Australia. A tough day would have been hosting a 4th of July party for the 5 – 10 Americans in the country (this actually happened while we were there. Unfortunately I wasn’t there by our friend Joey and some other Peace Corps people were there and the best part is they actually got charged for the Coke’s they drank which is so wrong it’s funny. Anyways I’ve given up on my dream job, but I don’t feel too bad, most of you are never going to become astronauts either (well there is one of you with an outside chance).

This brings me to my point, I’ve always thought it was a good idea to have a back-up dream job; an achievable one, without all the pretention. My realistic dream job was guy-who-runs-a-big-hotel. You know the excited feeling you get when at an airport, excited because you’re going somewhere; well being in a hotel is a lot like that, just more comfortable. Of course this would only work if it was a big international hotel with people from all over going in and out; running the local Motel 6 doesn’t hold the same allure. I would walk around greeting people, I’m sure I’d be fluent in multiple greetings and could go around giving away complimentary drinks and meals. The best part is I’d get to live in a hotel; a true dream of mine. A dream that might have came true. I’ve seriously considered living in a hotel here in Korea. I had it all figured out, instead of the govt. spending $25,000 a year to live in an apartment I could have stayed in my old hotel room and saved the taxpayers $10,000. Unfortunately I shipped way too much stuff over to make it work so instead I’m stuck in Joy Palace (and you’re helping to cover the extra $10,000).

Today was Labor Day which poses an interesting question, should you still celebrate American holidays if you’re not in America? Seeing as how I never celebrate Labor Day when in the states not a lot of deep thinking was required. When you wake up in Korea and its raining you pretty well know that when you go to bed it will still be raining. It rained all day and it rained on my mood. I was in a funk most of the day. Part of it has to do with how much of an American automotive slut I am. When you wake and it’s raining and you have plenty of plans but you don’t have sheltered transportation handy, oh and you’re American, a real sense of helpless confusion sets in. I did eventually make it onto the base, but of course it was raining there too. I did a few things but it didn’t stop raining, I got something to eat but it didn’t stop raining, I went to the BX but it didn’t stop raining; of course the whole time my mind stayed true to the weather. Two eventually put me back on the path.

First I ran into my principal (Tim) just I was about to leave and took advantage of the situation by bumming a ride home. Principal Tim is new to Korea as well; he has spent the last 20 odd years in Europe, most recently in Italy. He a tall, slightly awkward, aw-shucks kind of a guy. Incredibly nice and a million miles away from the disaster of an administration I dealt with at St. Cat’s. He tells me he has to stop at the BX (base exchange, essentially the base department store) before we leave and oh yeah, he’s really hungry so we have to go eat (I was cool with both, number 1 I could take advantage of the car and buy a TV, and 2 everyone has to eat). Sometimes when you’re down a nice person is all you need.

We decide it’s easiest to just eat on base at Chili’s (again) and this is where to mood really started to lighten. I’m sitting at Chili’s with my boss, shootin’ the breeze thinking to myself how is this happening? The idea of going out to eat with Christopher Ollie seems absolutely self-mutilation inducing, while the thought of going out to eat with Sister Jane seems awkward in the extreme (Sister Kathy would be no problem and Father Roetzer before the stroke would have been a night on the town). During our entire Chili’s dining experience I notice how Tim continually flirts with our waitress in his childlike, lovable loser way. So not only am I eating with my principal, I’m now watching him work his mack, and with this going on, how in the hell could one be glum? For a brief moment the thought of dining with Christopher Ollie while he hit on the waitress entered my mind, and in my mind I was sure I would leap over the table and stab him in the neck with my fork. Principal Tim even goes so far as to say to me “I didn’t think I’d find Korean women attractive, but I do?” Shit it could have been the 40 year flood happening outside I wouldn’t have cared at this point. I thought to myself “surely this guy’s act will never work”. But then it suddenly dawned on me, of course it’s going to work. Maybe not today with this girl, but it most definitely will work; shit I’m sure it already has, many times. The world is filled with all shapes, sizes and personalities. Certainly I could never use this guy’s playbook, I’d feel like a complete fool, but we’re different people and that’s better; why in the hell would I want to go out to eat with my clone? I’d rather eat alone and free myself to watch what’s going on around me.

The second thing that lightened my mood actually happened earlier in the day, but it but it here for endearment’s sake. I had just walked from the school to the BX under a constant drizzle that had left me damp and worn. Suddenly while wandering the aisles I hear a familiar song, a memory inducing song that takes me back to childhood and riding in my Mom’s HUGE beat up green Buick. I not only felt better, but I actually felt good; the suddenness of the turn was welcome, but hard to believe. I love music and sometimes underestimate its magic. A few times in your life you hit upon the perfect song at the perfect time which is damn well how it ought to be because you put up with a whole lot of shit songs in between. The song I heard was Baker Street by some one-hit-wonder I don’t have a prayer of remembering. I loved that song way back in the late 70’s and I still do. I know you’re all, at this moment, on a computer so your job now is to go to some music sight, find it, and listen to it. If you’re really into today’s “hot” new jams, this song might not be for you, but take a chance.

“And when you wake up it’s a new morning
The sun is shining, it’s a new morning

But you’re going, you’re going home.”

Calling all Quakers

Calling all Quakers is by far my favorite Troy McClure movie. Thinking about this reminded me that it's been 10 years since he was killed, pretty crazy. I remember getting the news in a letter from my brother Dan while in training in New Guinea. Anyways this post is an invitation to the readers to contribute to this blog. Surely a story is never truly told if comes from only one perspective. So if you read something you were a part of, or are reminded of something, or just want to tell a story I'm involved in; type it out and email it to me and I will throw it up and of course give you you're acknowledgement. Wouldn't it be great if after reading a great story about Scott Fay eating hot soup you actually got to hear from Scott Fay? Or how about a Joey Rios response or a gramatically correct Matt Geisler story. Who knows if this catches on you could read old high school stories, St. Cat's storys, or even an edited for content Army story. It's all riding on you.

Checking off the list

First off who in the hell is hamsterjockey 24? And am I to believe there are 23 more people out there with the name hamsterjockey? These are questions crying out for answers, please help in anyway you can. Hamsterjockey just doesn't sound right, reminds me too much of Richard Gere.



Alright we are 3 days into school and believe it or not I've been there for 2 of them. I've gotta think this is one of the sweetest teaching jobs there is, so much so there really isn't anything to talk about. The students are cool, my principal loves me (we cut out yesterday and went to Seoul), the school is cleaner than a hospital and I'm getting paid way more than I should. One funny thing I learned today that may be worth sharing is just one of those little cultural differences you find. All are maintenance and cleaning people are Korean and we have a small battalion of rather short Korean ladies that constantly go around the school cleaning up every little thing (those of you working for Racine Unified and there ultra-hygienic every other day cleaning schedule would really appreciate this little feature). More and more I'm coming to realize how hard Korean people work, as someone from the oddly labeled Generation X and it's tendency toward slackerness, it's really quite astounding. I first got a hint of this work ethic while still in the state. My friend Matt and I who got hooked on sushi and mai tai's (this is for another day altogether but why is it that during 99% of my I never have the urge to have a drink, but during the 1% of the time I'm around Matt Geisler having a drink seems like the most natural thing in the world; very strange). Well to get back to the point, when Matt and I would go to the sushi place in Racine, Shogun, we would always see the same girl, whose named we later learned to be Kim. It was as if she never left the place. After a while we became friendly enough for conversation and asked her about it and I for one got the impression it wasn't a big deal to her, it was completely normal. By the way the people that run the "Japanese" restaurant are Korean (and increasing Mexican which really sucks because the quality of the rolling has been going way down hill which sucks because you're starting to get these lob sided rolls with stuff falling out all over the place; and believe me it's not like the price is going down any). Now that I'm actually in Korea I see this work ethic was not some sort of Korean-person-in-Racine anomaly. So when are we getting to the cultural difference you may be wondering? Well right now. The Korean cleaning ladies think nothing of walking into the male bathroom and going about their cleaning business. You and some male students will be using the bathroom for the purposes it was designed for and you will find yourself dodging mops and little Korean women bent over the garbage cans. You quickly discover it's no big deal and appreciate their efforts, it's just the oddness of those first few times and the American-induced uncomfortableness that goes along with it. I couldn't imagine how it would be at an American middle or even high school where the male students are so uncomfortable and homophobic that they literally make love to the urinals; some of them practically have both feet inside of them. That was a long story about very little and to sum things up, school has started and there really isn't anything of interest to talk about so I'm going to move on and talk about something else.



Everybody has there own unique list of things they need to discover and check off when they move somewhere new. For some it may be where the nearest Magic card playing hobby shop is located (Rios; I can't believe I have one of those friends), for others it may be where the nearest Hooters is (Scott Fay, more on him later, but as Joey can attest, there is a really uncomfortable story here), still others may wonder where the nearest bar for guys who want to get drunk quick is at (obviously this is Geisler, by the way Matt what is the name of that bar? It's not Martini's) finally one might wonder where the really hot drama teacher who I can make out with is at (Nikki Michaels; I'm not sure if she's reading this but I always did love that story).

One of the things I'm always really interested in is where are the good restaurants located. The first week here I felt like a complete idiot because I was so busy running around trying to find things on base I would usually end up eating at the base's Chili's restaurant; I kept seriously thinking to myself "you came all the way to Korea and you're eating at Chili's?). Well luckily that page has mostly been turned, although I do like my baby back ribs on occasion. One of my favorite types of restaurants is the Thai restaurant and luckily I have found one quite close to the base, well withing walking distance which is a pretty key feature at the moment. I ventured out to my new favorite restaurant tonight after taking my driver's test (It's a pretty sweet system they have here. They give you the test, collect it back, grade it, and then sometimes hand it back to you and say "Sir would you like to review the first section of your test", which is really nice because after "reviewing" it I discovered I needed to make a few changes and wah-lahh, I passed). Over the weekend I had the green chili curry and it was some of the best I've had, so tonight I decided to go for a noodle dish. It wasn't quite as good but one of the things I truly appreciate about the place is that when you ask for something spicy, they make it spicy; so unlike most of the restaurant in the greater Racine area. Spicy food has a way of completely resetting you physically and mentally. If done correctly the hurt and pain completely clears the mind; it's really quite an experience.

I consider spicy food the fansidar of the culinary experiences. For those of you amongst the uninitiated, fansidar was this secret pill the Peace Corps gives you; sort of a drug of last resort. Whenever you came down with the tropical ailment of mysterious origin and where laying on your bed in the steaming heat completely unsure and slightly delusional, you would simply dig into the medical kit, find the fansidar, and know everything was going to be OK. Joey and I liked to equate it to the reset button on your VCR. You hit the button and Poohfff, you instantly get blinking red lights; not a completely functional state, but not a state of imminent collapse either.

I have to interrupt now and tell you my favorite spicy food story. You get to meet a new character in the story of my past, this one named Scott Fay; another Peace Corps friend. Joey (if you've forgotten, my closest P.C. friend) and I have decided Scott is luckiest guy we know, the guy with the best life around. I don't think we're really jealous or anything, there's no way either of us could ever life the Scott Fay lifestyle, in fact we're both really happy for him. Even though he's from New Jersey or somewhere lame like that, Scott is very California, and more specifically very Berkeley. He has the best disposition of anyone I know, he is always happy, smiling, and laughing. The best way I can think of to sum up the whole situation is Scott Fay is the type of guy who uses the word nebulous in casual conversation. Scott goes to Berkeley and they send him all over the world to collect little snails or something like that. Scott thinks to himself "Gee, I'd really like to go back to New Guinea" and then comes up with some crazy plan to go there and collect snails and Berkeley sends him; it's really the greatest deal I've ever heard of. Now back to the story. I believe we were at our end of service conference in Port Moresby. A lot had changed in the 2 years we had been over there, we started out with 50 some people and ended up with about half that. In some ways that made us special, except none of us really felt special, I mean come on, we were in New Guinea not one of the glamorous Peace Corps destinations. We were all convinced all the overachieving, Peace Corps superstars were sent to places like Thailand or Kenya. New Guinea? we were more on the level with places like Moldova.

So, we go to this Chinese restaurant and order food. I believe Scott goes last and orders a bowl of soup and asks for it to be spicy. The waiter diligently writes down the order, Scott then repeats that he wants his dish hot, followed quickly by the obligatory Scott Fay smile and laugh. The waiter turns to Scott and says "Oh you want it hot? I'll make it HOT". Every one at the table was a bit taken aback, this was just normal Scott Fay, and really quite endearing, but we knew it didn't go over well. The food came and the rest of us instantly forgot about the clash of cultures and became completely distracted with eating. It wasn't long before Scott mentions his soup is pretty hot. Nothing of alarm to the rest of us, doesn't someone always say "Ewww my food is hot" when group dining at an Asian restaurant? Persistence does have a way of making a point and after hearing it enough and experiencing Scott's face as he removed his glasses and stretched his face in response to the soup, the point was made; well it's better said the point was acknowledged. Soon the soup was offered to the rest of us. It really is tough to describe. The pain didn't go away, it really didn't go away. It felt like having small worms covered in broken glass crawling around inside your head. That was one of the last meals we had together in PNG and it's one you don't forget; a bunch of Americans in New Guinea eating Chinese food. It just shows you life is better unplanned.

Oh, Scott and his wife (another PC PNG group 29'er) recently had a baby (boy I think) so let's all be happy about that. Better yet if anyone from St. Cat's is reading this, the next time you're all together on Wednesday and they ask for intentions, someone needs to say "Scott Fay and his wife just had a baby and I'd like us to wish it a wonderful life". When this is done please tell me all about it.

And now a word from Joey Rios:

On the topic of MTV Asia and Mr. Fay:One of the biggest things I remember about discovering MTV Asia actually involves our good friend Scott Fay. For some reason while watching a video by some Chinese/Hong Kong pop star (singing in English with an accent), Scott wanted to make it clear that this singer was from California and currently attended UC Berkeley. I have no idea why he believed this to be true, nor why he couldn't understand our skepticism at the claim. If he could have somehow let us know how the hell he would have known such a thing, I think we may have given him the benefit of the doubt. I am pretty sure, in retrospect, that he was joking about knowing who that singer was. But he joked in a bizarre Scott Fay-ish sort of way that wasn't funny and was just odd. And like you said earlier, Scott is always smiling, so you can't get a read on the guy. And, by the way, Chili IS fine!

Joey

Guilt Refusal

I have to admit that I often feel a sense of obligation to this thing and a weird lingering guilt because I don't update it very often. Of course I then remember that no one else is writing anything for me to read and I instantly feel better. And of course, come on, how many people are actually reading this thing. It 's much easier to be someone's friend when you are around them and I'm not around too many people at the moment.

Today is Sunday and I had big plans going into this weekend (I'm sure when Geisler makes my blog required reading in his English class he'll point out this is an example of foreshadowing or something). By the way, Matt, thanks for keeping in touch with me,... Jackass (he can also point out this example of sarcasm). Anyways I haven't done too much exploring of town yet and had decided that Saturday would be the day. Unfortunately it rained and instead I sat around the hotel, but you have to take your excitement where you can get it, so on Saturday I made the big move from the hotel off base to the hotel on base. So far I have to admit I liked the one off base a little better. It was dumpy and it gave my life that "I'm somewhere weird" quality, the new one is typical of any American hotel right down to the too-much-bleach-in-the-linen smell.



Rain can stop you from doing the good things but it can't stop you from doing the dumb things, so instead of going into town I went to the "mall" otherwise known as the base exchange. Sometimes there is a really weird juxtaposition living on a military facility. I'm walking through the mall and seemingly out of nowhere I end up walking next to these Army guys absolutely fully loaded for combat; body armour, gas masks, machine guns, and every type of ammunition belt you can think of at the ready. Being new and not wanting to be a smartass prevented me from speaking but I really wanted to say "shouldn't you take a break from playing war, I mean come on, you're in the mall". Worlds seem to be colliding and it just doesn't seem right.

One thing I've come to discover about Korea is that it is obnoxiously air conditioned. We're just getting out of "monsoon" season, and I say this guardedly not wanting to offend any South Asian or Southeast Asian reader who would scoff at calling what happens here a monsoon. Anyways it's a bit hot and somewhat humid, ... outside; step into a building and OH MY! it's like stepping into a meat locker. The other day I went with a Korean house inspector out to my future apartment and quite against the norm, it was a beautiful day; warm and dry with a nice breeze. I get into the passenger's side of the truck, sit down, roll down the window and begin to feel free. He gets into the driver's side, flips the a/c to max and turns the blower to hell-hast-no-fury mode. Within seconds my eyes were drying up and my skin was cracking, but what was I going to do? it's his country. Suddenly.... I notice the vent controls and deceptively try to close the vent; deception of course was futile. He whipped into action and asked if it was too cold, let me tell you I was on those words like a car on dirt. I gave the straight honest answer of yes. Some kind of compromise was come to with the a/c reduced but without the open windows I craved. My feelings on the subject are this. Evidently Korea was a pretty ripped apart place after the Korean War and Koreans have done an amazing amount of work in the last 60 years. They've worked hard and now want to enjoy the good things that come along with it, like air conditioning. Therefore they use it, ... a lot, probably too much. It's probably just human nature. The same with driving, there are cars flying around here everywhere (sorry Joey, Hyundai is king; Daewoo not so much). They haven't gotten to the point of too much being a bad thing yet. When I got home from PNG a wanted a video game system, so I brought one. I then spent a whole summer playing the thing. Eventually I asked myself why do I keep playing this damn thing. There was no good answer.

Much like the way a piece of music can instantly bring you back to a different time and place, a good story can bring back memories of another story. I have two classic a/c stories from my days in PNG, unfortunately you are about to get the lesser of the two. The other involves two air conditioners, three ceiling fans, a conference room and one Joey Rios. My feelings now are that there will undoubtedly be a better time for that story. I consider it one of my greatest moments, a sublime moment of quiet rebellion, a quality I feel amongst the most important to possess. Your story concerns Peace Corps PNG group 29's first midservice conference at the Kohai lodge in Port Moresby, one of the most nasty hot/humid places on earth. Not being on one of the more remote less transportationally gifted islands, meant I arrived later than most. There was huge excitement in the air as we had finally broken away from each other and spent the last 3 months scattered about at our respective schools. Finding out what had happened to whom, who was still around, who had cut ship back to the states and just seeing the faces of your friends again created a moment of intensity. It's hard for me to accurately describe it especially in today's world of cell phones, instant messaging, and the crappidy-crap that is sure to come. Believe me it was HUGE. Rumors of people leaving were everywhere and we had a pool going as to who would be the first to go (of course I picked the guy who is probably still there).

I really should farm out some work to my Peace Corps friends and have them describe to you some of the characters we had in our group, "The Murph" stories are worth an entire blog themselves. Anyways I get to the Kohai (wait first a description of the Kohai). It was like a big house someone added on to, fixed up and made into a hotel of sorts. It was actually pretty scuzzy, in fact they at first didn't want the girls to stay there. If you wanted to be awakened in the night by the sexual overtures of random New Guineans it was your place. It was mostly oppressively hot with unbelievably uncomfortable mattresses, but we still loved it. We loved it because it was run by a bunch of young guys who let us do whatever we wanted. [As an aside, I saw one of the greatest ever science fiction movies during this stay, it had some guy running around with a forever loading, weapon of death shotgun (chik-chik)]. After getting there I learned I was assigned to one of the crappy rooms which didn't sit well until I learned it didn't really matter because there was a huge sleep over in the super big "luxury" sweet at the end of the hall, this place had a TV AND an a/c! Man we had the greatest time telling our stories and laughing away amidst the intense sugar rush one impugns on one's self in such a circumstance. And if that wasn't enough, one of the defining moments of my TV viewing life was about to envelop me; a true love was born and it's name was MTV Asia. It all may sound like too much to you, but go spend some time where we spent some time; the truth will then be upon you. To be around females wearing what is in essence maternity dresses month after month somewhat warps the brain. When a warped brain encounters "Living La Vida Loca" by Ricky Martin, once again, WORLDS COLLIDE. You don't know what to do, you're transfixed and the best you can do verbally is "Oh My!"

Eventually all good things must end and sleep is all that's left. The a/c is set to maximum blast and we all strove off to sleep. Soon the difficulties of our decisions surrounded us and there was no way the substandard sheets we were using could cope. It became unbelievable cold and unbelievable dry. The answer was simple, but this was a time we were all trapped between a state of hopefulness and reality. We all hoped we could just lay there half asleep and somehow mentally warm ourselves when reality called for someone to actually get up and turn the thing off. It was so bad I think even Joey Rios woke up miserable (this is saying something, Joey claims to be naturally warmer than everyone. There seems to be some truth in this claim, mosquitoes tend to ignore everyone else nearby and attack only him. Check the comments section below, he will surely have something to say).


Today was the first day of class here in Korea; quite a day in it's own way. It's been a loooong time since I really taught, I don't count subbing and I really can't count my last weary days at St. Cat's (some of you know this to be true). First day of school sounds like a great blog posting, but I don't have anything left so I'll wait a couple of days and go for the First Week of School posting.


Note: the making of this entry was spread over two days. A cheap shot was taken at Geisler early in the post. I'm happy to report I received an email from him today and thus my words ring a bit hollow. It has been left as written in the name of honesty.

Early thoughts on Korea

Well alright, I've been in Korea for around 5 days and thought it was well past time to put down my early impressions. If you're coming to Korea it's pretty much assured you'll get to start your adventure in Seoul (because that's where the big airport is). I must admit, I don't know how to adequately describe it except to say Seoul is F***ing HUge! (Unfortunately I can't say Huge and Beautiful!). Being somewhat middle-aged, I've seen alot of apartment buildings in my life, but it took but one drive through Seoul to INSTANTLY QUADRUPLE THAT NUMBER. Seoul is an endless hodge-podge of uninspiring urban-industrial high-rise apartment buildings. The extent of which still leaves me questioning my senses. It's about an hour bus ride from Seoul to where I am in Songtan (Osan Air Base) and to get between the two you basically travel down one large highway. Along this entire span THE APARTMENT BUILDINGS NEVER STOP, the whole way, all 60 or so miles! This is one of the things that leads me to believe that Korea is country in a hurry, a big hurry. I haven't been here long enough to know where their headed or why they want to get there so fast. In addition to liking their apartment buildings they also like their cars, cars are flying around everywhere.

I haven't been here very long but somehow, someway everything is already starting to feel normal. The one things that ensures that this progression will never be complete is the damn alphabet they use here. Looking at a sign gives you an eerie sense of intimadation and vast puzzlement; you know there is no way to even begin to know what is saying to you, and with the sheer purpose of a sign being a means to inform you, the paradox is complete. Luckily for me and others of my ilk, English is creeping it's way onto many signs.

The people I've come in contact with have all been very nice, but there is still a bit of discomfort within me as I walk around town. Physically Koreans are quite different than the people I've spent my life around and this is still playing tricks with my mind. As I spend more time here it will surely fade, but at the moment it's a feeling I've never experienced. Living in Germany was no big issue because I'm European, being in PNG wasn't a big deal because I've been around black people all my life, never in quite the proportion but it never really made me subconsciously pause. Now the naked old people that would occasionally walk around town made me pause, but that was mostly in the highlands and I did my best to stay out of that place (someday I'll go into one of Joey and I's golden rules, Under No Condition are You Ever to Return to the Village. That statement may mean nothing to you to now, but someday it will).

I'm still in a hotel and thus have access to Korean cable TV and I do believe you can learn alot about a people by what's on their cable TV. I make no judgements here because being in a hotel that sees a lot of foreigners I could very well be seeing the shows Koreans think foreigners want to see rather than what Koreans themselves want to see; more investigation will be required in this matter. There's no way to know what on or what's coming on so I do a lot of cycling through the channels. I typical cycle might look something like this: Korean news show, Korean olympic coverage, Korean olympic coverage, more Korean olympic coverage, bad American movie, bad European movie, BBC, CNN, another bad American movie, english language sports coverage, two unattractive people humping, Woooo what was that? RIght at the end of the cycle is some low grade porno channel that inevitably has two very unattractive people humping away. Be aware when I say unattractive I am not making any kind of racial remark, they have unattractive Asian, unattactive whites, etc... You never really know when it's coming because the channels aren't numbered, there is some crazy Korean character where you would normally find the number. And this folks is where I am going to leave you tonight, with the thought of two very unattractive people humping running through your mind. What does this say about us as people when no matter where you go in the world, Porn is king? The biologist in us might not be surprised by the desire to procreate we share with all the other living things; but boy the conversion that brings it into high society can sure make you laugh and wonder.

Plane Rides and Great Adventures

Flying long distances requires proper pre-flight preparation. This is probably a somewhat individually tailored process so what's good for me may not work for you. As some of you may know, one of my habits of good personal heath involves the ingestion of copious amounts of fluids and the natural result of such an action, frequent urination. One great bit of good fortune during the St. Catherine's years was inheriting a classroom almost directly across from the bathroom. Large quantities of diluted beverages could be enjoyed relatively pain free. However on a long flight this potentially presents a real problem. Forseeing this I went into action early and began dehyrdating myself several days in advance (which worked out well seeing as how I had to drive to St. Louis the Wednesday before and less stops equaled faster travel). Pulling a window seat on flight day made this early action key.

Not only do I like my fruit drinks watery, I also like my air watery. I've had big problems in the past with irritated dry nasal tissue on airplanes and had planned to stop by the drug store the day before leaving and buy a bottle of that nasal spray people who spend too much time in the ocean use. I got hooked on the stuff in prior days and concluded that if it worked during the cold, dry days of winter; it should work on an airplane. A potentially disasterous situation nearly arose when I didn't make the trip to the drugstore as planned and was left to improvise on the morning of the flight. My solutions was a true bit of genius, vasoline. I would take a tube of vasoline with me and generously coat the inside of my nose with it. It worked out so well it has now become my first choice solution.

Everything about the flight started out rather smoothly, no problems checking in or getting through security. The flight turned out to be a Korean Airlines flight so I would have the added benefit of early cultural emersion. My next strategy for surviving a long flight is to get situated and to go into what I like to call Prisoner of War mode. I sit quietly, block out the rest of the world, come to grips with my situation and let my mind wander where it may. Before too long I found myself running through all the memorable travel experiences from my past. I first went back to my first great trip, my journey to Germany with the Army and how the polyester-fueled body heat radiating from my legs overcame the chemical forces of cohesion found in the gum I had attempted to dispose of in the small ashtry built into the armrest but instead somehow found its way under my left leg. After 8 hours the domination of chemistry was complete and as I attempted to stand and leave my seat and enter that inviting aisle which would lead to my triumphant escape from the plane, I found a long neon green tenacle of gum stretching from my leg to the seat.

Next I recalled a cross-German road trip my friends and I took to attend a music festival that involved one burned out clutch mid journey, the near miracluous acquistion of another vehicle (and the concomittant dumping of the first), and best of all, the leaving of one Mick Harney at the show a hundred miles away because he was a drunken idiot and was probably too busy trying to be every Germans' friend instead of meeting where it was clearly agreed to meet after the show and the rest of us where tired and wanted to go home. Leaving your drunk, shirtless friend on a mountain halfway across Germany is something you only do when you're young. All turned out well so I consider it a bit of sheer brillance from a time gone by; with the advent of the cell phone something like this probably doesn't happen any more.

Of course there was also the time my brother Matt and I flew home on a summer visit from Germany and in our excited state of anticipation and bliss, made nice with the stewardess on our Royal Dutch Airlines flight (ahh the Dutch). She gave us a set of those plastic pilot wings they usually dole out to kids AND took us up to the cockpit to meet and greet the pilot. Ahh those pre 9-11 days, to have known them is to have loved them.

TIme travels fast when it's disconected and I soon found myself remembering perhaps the most uncomfortable bit of travel my middling life has ever known, the bus ride from Lae to Goroka during my Peace Corps stint in Papua New Guinea (PNG). It first must be admired for the inherent bits of trust and simplicity associated with it, very much in keeping with the Peace Corps spirit. Three of us (myself, Jessica Eberly, and of course Joey Rios); all on different islands, all of us basically incommunicado; decided to take a trip back to our PNG roots in Goroko. There were no emails or phone calls or anything of the sort, just a decision to be in Lae on a particular day and a healthy dollup of trust. I got off the plane at the Lae airport (which consists of a small room you never enter a long metal outdoor table they throw you luggage on) and hoped my friends would be there, they were. The next day we board our "bus" which consists of a miniturized version of the minivan, quite commonly found in the developing world. I'm not sure of the maximum capacity of such a vehicle but it's safe to say these types of guidelines are thrown out the window in a poor country when there is a buck (or kina in this case) to be made. There were probably about 15 people and their luggage stuffed into this beast as we began our journey down the only "highway" to be found in the entire country. It is truly amazing the kind of contortional discomfort one can endure when there is no choice in the matter and when you couple this with the burning desire to pee, you gain a sense of personal strength able to carry you through the obligatory horrors of life that are sure come.

No discussion of the PNG can end with out mention of the last great adventure attempted while on these islands, the scaling of volcanic mountains overlooking Rabual. Rabual had evidentally at one time been quite a place, a jewel of the pacific. Unfortunately in the mid 90's it was buried under ash. If you imagine a fish hook, Rabual consisted of the bottom curvy part surrounded by ocean on three sides, the pointy hook part consisting of three mountains ascending straight out of the ocean. It was always my desire to climb to the top and peer out over this crazy place I had somehow ended up in. Time was running short, my days were quickly coming to an end when Joey decided to pay a farewell visit before we both went back to our stateside homes. It all seemed so perfect, I had spent two years of trial and triumph and I would climb to the top, reflect, and metaphysically relight the memories of an experience I could never have foreseen. Knowing of my desire, one of the office ladies at my school decided to take care of everything. She was from the village at the base of the hill and would arrange for a boy to meet us in Rabaul and lead us up the mountain. The day before our big adventure Joey and I venture to Rabual and walked through the ash covered wasteland to a hotel surrounded by nothing but crumbled walls, ash, and (interestingly enough) a couple more hotels (who is staying in these places?). Once inside the air conditioner immediately goes on, the TV quickly turned to MTV Asia, a call is placed to room service, and a pizza is ordered. Joey being of the vegetarian order, we get the standard no meat pizza and begin to enjoy. Oddly enough we soon learn that in PNG ham is considered a vegetarian delight. Joey stops eating, a call must be made to correct this misdeed. At this point it occurs to me there is room for opportunity. Why give back a nearly whole pizza when it's just going to be discarded? No, that would be wasteful; much better for me to eat half of it and THEN make the call for it's replacement. Air conditioning, MTV Asia, and the mild pleasure of hotel pizza; Peace Corps volunteer heaven. The next morning we awake and set out on our journey. We arrive at the meeting place to inevitably find ourselves completely alone. We wait, but we already know, we wait some more, but the truth is there unsaid; nobody is coming. It then dawns on us that we're not idiots, we're Peace Corps volunteers, long known for their spirit of adventure and we decide to go it alone. It seems pretty simply, just keep walking uphill and you'll get to the top. Being a tropical country it's not quite that easy, our mountain is covered with the kind of thick vegetation one might expect to find on the set of a bad Vietnam movie. We see somthing that looks like a path and follow it; all is well, all is well, ... all is not well. We're taken to a spot of little decision, our path has led us to a ridge surrounded on three sides by jungle covered ravines. Severe rationalization can be both a blessing and a curse. We weigh our options: a mountain struggle in front of us; air conditioning, MTV Asia, and ham-infused vegetarian pizza behind us. We took the rationalization as a blessing and chose the hotel life. From this arose wisdom which will forever guide our lives, Some Mountains Are Not Meant To Be Climbed.

Continuing on I remembered the time after the Peace Corps while living in California that I came home for a wedding and stayed for a funeral, a pretty lame two-for-one.

After this I drew a bit of a blank, surely this wasn't my last worthy travel story, it was 8 years ago. I then remember all those great times I had on my semi-annual Appalachia adventures with St. Catherine's. The latest occuring last fall during the my last tumuluous days at the school. Why they asked me to go I'll never be quite sure, I guess the school considered me good enough as long as nobody else wanted to do it. The thing that sticks with me the most is the ride home and how I let my sour mood overcome me, how a person I genuinely liked, Sarina Singh, became my mortal enemy with our only civil connection being the bag of skittles located on the floor between us. Sometimes you reflect on moments past and just think you owe the world an apology, this is one of those times.


All these thoughts of travel took me up to dinner time where I had my first connection with the eldery Korean lady seated next to me. Of course she ordered the very American beef with noodles while I prefered the Korean dish on offer. The name of the dish was given to me several times, each time it whistled by in a breeze of short, bouncy syllables. I have since come to learn that the names of Korean dishes are much like something you would hear babble out of Pebbles Flinstone. A shocking contrast to my first oversees experience in Germany. If you tried to talk that fast in that language you would surely either trip and fall or vomit due to the unsustainable diaphragmic convulsions required. The dish I had consisted of a container of rice and a second container of neatly organized pieces of vegetables and beef. Having obviously been painstakingly arranged, I began eating it piece by individual piece. Then came the human connection, she turned to me, began to gesture and speak. The words meant nothing, but she seemed to be motioning to me to mix the rice into the dish. It is very hard to escape your language, no matter how useless it may be. I quite futily responded in english "Oh, should I mix it?"; she responded in Korean. She then helped me, she tore open the package of sesame oil and poured it in, she monitored me as I efficiently mixed my once neatly organized meal into a mass of ricey mush. Somehow we had gotten through it together. And then it dawned on me, isn't that what life is really all about.

Someday I'll actually get to the Korean portion of this thing, but it just takes time.