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Toqueville	I am in Korea. That fact dawned on me about halfway out from the airport. It didn't hit me on the plane where I got no sleep but watched a subtitled "Meet the Parents." It didn't hit me when I touched down and got some sort of drink from a machine that included rice bits and some other non-recognizable...bits. It didn't even hit me when the taxi guy shoved me and my bags into a car slightly larger than a golf cart. It hit me when we were doing 60 on a highway with mountains out every window...and skyscrapers right on top of the mountains. Aside from the terrain it kinda looked like parts of Long Island. But that difference, along with the copius amounts of street signs that looked like unfinished Picassos, well that's when it hit me. I was in Korea. I started giggling and sorta got giddy. This might even be exciting. I looked over at the stoic guide who picked me up at the airport and the even more stone faced taxi driver who couldn't figure out what I thought was so funny. I decided I should probably laugh on the inside. On the ride to school I discovered many things. One, in Seoul, barbers and their psychedelic poles are locaed anywhere they can stuff a man and his scissors, icluding the middle of a food court. Two, "nostalgia" and "happy fun" are the preferred advertising prefixes for food, cars and household appliances. Three, green and red lights are less standards for driving here than rough outlines. Pedestrians in this country are doomed.It was shortly afterward I realized I was going to be one of them. Incidentally, you'll all be recieving copies of my last will and testament soon. The school - the wonderland academy - is filled with different classrooms patterned after different cartoon characters. I have been assigned the "Peter Rabbit" class. It's only 8 kids but one of them is a crier named Mark. This kid cries if he hurts himself, comes in second place in games or if the lunch is the wrong color. This would be a good time to mention that the only thing I've recognized in my lunch so far is the rice. Today I went to the receptionist of the school and told her that, judging by smell, one of the kids had decided to poop in the sink. Turns out the lunchlady just made a really strong batch of kimchee. By strong I mean it smelled like the mop at a porno theater. And these kids asked for seconds. Actually so did I. Until I can figure out how to determine which is a food store and which is an appliance shop, all I have in the fridge is ice and altoids. The other teachers here are all extraordinarily friendly and helpful. This is apparently because the four teachers who weren't, snuck out in the middle of the night for parts unknown two weeks ago. I got one of their apartments, which, by all acounts, is a villa compared to the places the rest of the teachers have. I don't even have a roommate. In fact, the only problems I've had so far are that my bed has no sheets (but five blankets strangely enough), the lights from the nearby bus terminal are on all night, and that my landlord broke in yesterday, nearly killed me and ruined my door. Apparently the school didn't tell my non-english speaking landlord that I was moving in. So, last night, when I finally got home, I collapsed on my bed, locked my door (with door chain) and passed out. I awoke to a screaming Korean man demanding to know who I was. Apparently he had tried to get in to take my heating oil, was stopped by my door chain, and had to break down the door. At that moment I realized, sleepily, that I had no chance of making Screamy the Landlord understand I hadn't broken in to take a nap. Luckily, also at that moment, my neighbor, a fellow english teacher, came along. She explained what happened and who I was in broken Korean. It seemed to go over because he nodded, his wife apologized and they left. He still stole all my heating oil though. Anyhow my first exposure to the middle school kids I teach in the second half of the day is only 20 minutes off. With any luck these kids will know a little more english than my morning preschoolers. And with more luck still, it will be more that curse words and American phrases to pick up chicks. I am not too hopeful on that latter one. Tonight I'm off to the bars. I'll write again on Monday and let you folks know if there is indeed more to this great country besides badly phrased english slogans written on satin jackets. With any luck there will be affordably priced local hooch, bars with music that doesn't sound like Asian Celine Dion and girls who think I'm the best thing since sliced bread. Again, I am not too hopeful on that latter one. Especially since I don't even know how to buy sliced bread. Take care and I need someone to mail me sheets, Toqueville AKA Riley Ray
Toqueville	Well I just had my first round of drinking in Seoul. It was illuminating, interesting and has brought me to the following conclusion: it's a wonder there's any sober people anywhere in South Korea. This weekend, at a fellow teacher's house, I was introduced to a drink called "soju." It comes in a little green bottle, it's roughly the size of a 16 oz Coke and costs about 65 cents American. Said bottle is nearly tasteless when introduced into a pitcher of lemonade, kool aid or soda. And, coincidentally, makes the drinker also tasteless after four or five drinks. Apparently on soju, I think I'm not only Irish, with full accent, but I can sing multiple choruses of Hank Williams tunes. Loudly. Or so the neighbors told me later. While cost-effective, the total cost of soju needs to also include a hangover that could cripple an elephant. I was sure the north korean army was invading when I woke up with a tongue that tasted like brillo. I was fully prepared to surrender in return for some silence when I got up. Turns out it was just someone knocking at my door. It was my neighbor, the one who saved me from death at the hands of Screamy the Landlord. Turns out Screamy had delivered her MORE heating oil than she needed so she was replacing the stores he stole from me. Things in Korea are more circular than I figured. I'm guessing to get groceries I'm going to have to buy fruit for a stranger and then wait for someone to deliver apples. Speaking of which, this weekend I saw a guy fall off an apple truck. Now it's not everyday you see a metaphor brought to life like that. Usually to do that you gotta buy a grindstone and get someone with a big nose to look closely at it. But it IS every day you see these trucks. Peanut trucks, apple trucks, potato trucks. They park wherever there's no traffic ACTIVELY being driven through...and start selling whatever's in the back of the truck. The entrepenurial spirit is amazing to watch. Apparently a sales license in Korea is just gas, an engine and brake lines. Actually I take that back. Just gas and an engine. I've been here four days and I haven't seen anyone use their brakes yet. They slow, they gear down and they swerve...but they do not stop. Ever. This is a land in perpetual motion. My guess is that it's all just a daily dress rehearsal for the 60 mile an hour exodus the entire country will do south if the North ever runs out of food and starts looking their way. Frankly, having seen some of the food here, those folks are not only taking their chances, the're getting gipped on portions. Here's a fun fact: when you go to McDonald's here, what WE think of medium is THEIR super-size. I had a big mac that was smaller than a US cheeseburger. And the meat was debatable at best. But that's not the scary part. You know when you go to throw away you tray and trash after eating? Well you know the disposable cups? They get recycled. I thought about it for a minute. Then I thought about the coke I just drank. Then...well then I got more nauseous than when I went on Magic Mountain at Euro Disney on six shots of schnapps. I was about to ask my friend about our straws and then thought better of it. My constitution couldn't handle any more environmentalism today. I will say this though, for a country that treats food conservation like religion, when it comes to furniture these folks are practically regal in their waste. You have never SEEN such nice furniture thrown out on the street. Coming from a man who's only ever done his furniture shopping on heavy trash pickup day, it's high praise indeed. I mean someone threw out an entire oak & leather art deco living room set. You'd pay 2 grand easy for this new. And at least 500 for it used. Here? it's not even the nicest thing I've seen on the street today. I would take it back to my apartment but, aside from the double bed that's made me the envy of the entire Wonderland teaching staff, I've only got enough room for a table and three chairs in the rest of my house. I ever play bridge, someone's gonna have to sit in the shower. And finally, speaking of my house, one other tidbit about my place that I discovered this weekend. After I put in some of my heating oil and decided I had enough to splurge and heat my house...well I took a nice long nap. When I woke up my house toasty. Too toasty in fact. I sat up and put my feet on the floor. The floor was hot. I mean HOT. Having excelled in fire safety from grades four through six I knew this could only mean one thing. Fire. Clutching my CDs (the only thing most of you know I truly love) I ran to the hall. Which was cool. Very cool. I walked back into my house. Hot floor. Then I went into the Hall. Cool Floor. I did this a few more times. Then, braving the dangers of certain firey doom, I went back in and phoned a fellow teacher, Kierstie. I asked her how soon I could expect the flames to lick upon my home given how hot the floor was. It was about two minutes before she stopped laughing. Seems that, unlike Western civilization, Korean culture ignores vents, ducts and central heating to instead heat their homes through the floor. I pointed out that this MIMICKED exactly the way one knows their house is on fire and quoted my fire safety training from Mr. Auerbach's class in 1982. She said not to worry. Given that my building was made before sprinkers, fire codes and was built entirely of wood...if there was a real fire, well I was a goner anyway. IN some strange way I took comfort in that and went back to my nap. I might die in a firetrap inferno, but at least I would be well rested. Riley Ray PS - IN case any of you want to send me anything, I could use some books. The only thing I can read over here is the small print on ingredient labels and I've learned it's probably for the best if I don't. Any books at all. Anything interesting or engaging and written in ENGLISH (yeah I saw that coming you jokers). My mailing address is at the school: Riley Ray Chiorando c/o Wonderland School 4F, 715-1, Changdong, Dobonggu, Seoul, Korea But one tip. they say anything subversive or pornographic MAY be confiscated so I'd hold onto whatever you think my usual reading material is. Of course if you know any way to make a Maxim magazine look like a Ladies Home Journal, you might want to give it a shot. Thanks
Toqueville	4/3/00 I have been to the promised land my friends. Her name is Japan. Or J-Lo for short. Now this is kinda wacky, so bear with me. In order to obtain a teaching visa for Korea you must FIRST send a number of documents TO Korea. THEN you have to come to Korea to obtain the proper documentation and fill out a stack of forms the size of a short baby. Here it helps to have a translator because English they ain't. THEN, when all the right forms have been dotted and checked and stamped with official looking stamps in Korean that look like modern art...that's when you go to Japan. See, you have to COME to Korea to fill out the forms. BUT you have to LEAVE Korea and go to a foriegn country where there is a Korean Consulate to FILE them. I will never complain about the Department of Motor Vehicles again. That's why this bureaucratic boondoggle involved a trip to Japan. As my Korean employers explained to me, with a map no less, Osaka Japan, an hour and half away, is the closest foriegn nation to ours. So, neing few options, that's where I would have to go to submit my pudgy pile of paperwork. Half-laughing, I pointed up to North Korea and commented that communists are usually pretty good with forms. Then I asked if anyone had a bus schedule for the DMZ. Dead Silence. And I mean DEAD. The kind usually reserved for cops who walk into crime scenes so they can ask, "what smells?" Anyway, North Korean humor isn't traditionally well recieved here. If you're planning a trip, you might wanna jot that down. So off to Japan I went to get my teaching visa. From start to finish, Japan is just a great place. I arrived at an uber-modern aiport that seemed like it could land space craft. I met an information desk person who never broke eye contact while drawing a detailed and perfect map. And I rode a subway so clean and plush that seemed like it came from IKEA. Of course you should bear in mind I'm from a city that lets you use the F train as a toilet after 11PM. But I digress. Now this is NO slam on Korea, but this was the most refined, amazing metropolis I have ever gotten lost in. Really. And I'm not even saying that because all the women wear outfits like they're on Ally Mc Beal. Okay maybe that's HALF the reason I'm saying it. But really, to see it is mind boggling - even for a man who's lived in LA. In fact that's what it reminded me of - all the sexiness of the way women in LA dress combined with all the style of the women in New York. That and I think the entire nation is a size four. And the comparisons became pretty clear. Korean women here, even the prettiest women in Seoul, for the most part dress for economy not allure. Thankfully there are some exceptional exceptions - which I'll get to in a my next update. However, in general, the theme is "girl next door...who works for Hyundai." Now I appreciate, given a history of nation to nation domestic violence, there's no love lost between the Japanese and Koreans. It's practically Jerry Springer with embassies. So maybe it's all a determined differentiation that makes Korean women here approach day to day fashion in a Wal-mart sense and not an Ann Taylor one.vStill, the total effect is that women dress modest, wear minimal makeup and don't even shyly smile at Riley Ray. Okay so I may be reaching on that last one. Still...Japan. It's night and day. And it's a nice day. Like South Beach with less skin. Like NY with less diversity. Like LA with less silicone. Like Europe with less attitude. And more baths. The whole of it was simply remarkable to look at. And I'm guessing that goes a long way toward explaining why I got lost three times in two hours and almost missed my slot at the Korean Consulate. Once there with my Visa fee money I awoke to harsh reality once more and found out Japan's crucial flaw: with the Yen in the toilet, Japan has decided to monetarily bitch-slap the Korea's dollar, the Won. Translation? In exchange rate terms my employers had barely given me enough to buy gum. And, as it was almost closing time, I only had 10 minutes to find the only place that changed Won to Yen close to a mile away. I shed my jacket, grabbed my passport and trucked off, full tilt, in the general direction the visa clerk pointed me in. The natives of Osaka were gracious enough to step to the left - pretty much all at once - and give the sweaty American a wide berth. When I reached the bank with the help of - count em' - four helpful construction workers, I changed over the last of my OWN meager money and prayed it would cover the shortfall. Turns out I had just enough extra to buy gum after all. But not spearmint. I'm guessing that's for millionaires. So, Teaching visa approved and in hand, I headed back to the airport by an effective and charming light rail system. This time I only got lost once due to the fashionable and attractive denziens in short skirts. And even THEN it was only because she was wearing an honest to god garter belt. With a mini. Seriously, that's like seeing ball lightning. Or a white buffalo. Or a congressman with a conscience. An hour and half later I was on my way back to a teaching gig with screaming five year olds, a humble flat where the shower is the ENTIRE bathroom and a country full of women with restraint. Damn them. I'll leave you all with two fun facts. Did you know Korea is known as "The Land of the Morning Calm" ? It's true. I learned it from an airline magazine and those things are practically almanacs. According to their crack staff it's the offical motto of Korea. Land of the Morning Calm. That's the motto. Really. Now, here's the other fun fact. Korea has the third worst driving conditions in the world. Their auto accident rate is 26 times the rate of the USA. And apparently that includes both New Year's Eve and New Jersey. Having SEEN 7AM traffic in Seoul, I tried to reconciling those two things. What wI came up with? Korea's motto writers must be a profound liar who probably works for the Tobacco Industry now. Or I could be wrong. Maybe he's an honest writer with good intentions who sees the TRUE Korea. That and he got hit by a 7AM bus before he could write the motto "Land of the Careening Hyundai." I'd like to care more but a motto writer is probably dead and I've been early twice this week. Frankly, as I do the math, that makes for a pretty good country after all. I mean, provided you're not paying the car insurance premiums. Riley Ray Next time: A trip to Seoul's strip of bars known as "Hooker Hill." And just in time for Sweeps.
Toqueville	I have been to the top of Seoul's infamous Hooker Hill and I have seen its secrets. And its dance clubs. And its bars. And the outside of its brothels. To make extra sure that it was the right hill, I went three times. I am nothing if not dedicated. So. What are the chief mysteries of Hooker Hill? This bastion of bawdiness? This small mountain of Korean excess? This island of sin in a city of reserve? They are four-fold. 1. I have discovered where the Korean women who do not dress modestly, who are not hookers, hang out. 2. I have discovered where the military chicks and non-korean women, who are not-hookers, who dress even less modestly, hang out. 3. I have have discovered where the hookers - who do dress somewhat modestly for ladies of the night - hang out. 4. I have discovered that taxi drivers in Seoul hate folk songs. (more on that later) The first observation was probably the one I was most looking forward to. I have spent the last few weeks in an environment where no woman, as far as the eye could see, dresses any racier than a librarian. Once I hit Hooker Hill, modesty took a holiday. There was enough fishnet to catch a whale. As for the reserve most Korean women seemed to apply to their makeup, well that went elsewhere too. You could've made an Albino red - head to toe - with that much blush. All in all, these women looked as good as I suspected they would... provided someone gave them the permission to cut loose. Which is what these girls were doing with a vengance. Not to be outdone, the ex-pat women, the female military and the girls just on holiday were trying to better their Korean counterparts in "see em from 200 yards" attractiveness. My fellow english teacher and "hooker hill" tour guide, Krista, even wore her "making trouble" dress. The whole thing, when you came right down to it was like some trashy arms race of love. I nearly cried. It was like a beautiful wedding. In a trailer park. But, as with nearly everything here in the east, there is a saddening yin to whatever kickass yang you can come up with. And the other shoe to drop here was numbers. All told, for a city the size of Seoul, including the military girls the ex-pat girls, the drunken German Heidi vacationers and the Korean women willing to buck an entire society's tradition...well there just weren't that many of em. A little math: in any given club in Seoul, the number of women looking to get funky on the dance floor is about the same as in any American club. So is the amount of booze they drink. And so is the number of times in a night some overtired DJ can be shamed into playing "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." (2 for those scoring at home) So what's the magic X-factor number that turns the equation sour? The the number of men. By my accounting, hungry men outnumber the funky women here 8 to 1. On a good night. On a bad one? The lone woman in the club might be hiding in the bathroom waiting for the testosterone to descend to merely "hazardous" levels. And remember, this isn't just regular guys outnumbering women on the dance floor. This is an alpha male heavy, well trained army. Literally. Your average regular Joe is competing with at least one or two deadly forward batallions. All in all, for you women getting this little travelogue, Seoul is a seller's market - so to speak. You can have any well-employed, clean cut, athletic man of your choosing. All it takes is one good come on line. I hear "hello" works pretty well. Actually coughing is close enough for most of these guys. And what are these men searching for looks-wise? That'd be boobs. If you're a woman, the verdict is that you're gorgeous. Period. You could be a serial killer with a third eye and hair over 2/3'ds of your body and some soldier would bring roses. Twice. AND, if you've got more than just the basic plumbing aspect going for you, you're likely to get a marriage proposal before you make it to the ladies room. On the upside, it does cut down on those long lines for the can. Now me, I'm a sensible enough guy. I know that to try and compete on physical terms with a guy who exercises for a living is sheer madness. Which is why I, when competing, go in stealth. With what? Conversation. Yes, a rapier wit, a charming line and a raft full of the most perfect comebacks known to man. Those are my secret weapons in the battle for women on a Saturday night. And in Korea I was Don Quixote. Aforementioned weapons are as useless as the French Army when shouted over Madonna songs to a Korean women who can barely understand the lyrics they're lip-syncing. The first night I went, I figured it was bad luck. The second night, a fluke. The third night was the epiphany: I'm going to be a lonely man here in Korea. Which brings me to the hookers. No, I haven't sunken that low yet - at least not in a town with a military STD rate almost as high as the Nasdaq is low. But when you're getting blown off by foriegn women faster than you can hit on them, you get the time you need to walk the area. So, rather than fight my wat through the 9 guys clustered at each of the only english speaking women in the club, I decided to take in the sights on Hooker Hill. Aside from the "priced to move" imitation Tommy Hilfiger underwear, the sights are maily scores of military men facing the same insurmountable odds I encountered in the clubs. Their decision? To opt for a quick, legal and...less heavily defended position. The Korean Brothel. The brothels are named, near as I can tell, by pulling random phrases from the newspaper. A sample? "Endeavor" "Calypso" and Device." So named, even though, as near as I could tell, none of the ladies were Shuttle Pilots, Carribean or Engineers. Possibly device operators yes, but engineers no. The only brothel whose name made any sense was the one at the very apex of "Hooker Hlll." Its name? "Last Chance for Love." And for the drunken soldier who'd ascended Hooker Hill's very steep procession, who'd entered into each club along the way, who'd been rejected by local and foreigner alike, who'd gotten to the very top of the hill with no chance for romance in sight...well it was truth in advertising. The first I'd seen since I got here. Though that's mainly because they sell blenders here as "happy refreshing blenders." In any case, I did not partake in the "sin on a stick" available in the storefronts that outnumbered convenience stores here two to one. I simply waited for the soju to subside, for my friend Krista to emerge from the hordes of servicemen begging her for a number and for dawn to break. When it did, she, me, and two of her girlfirends caught a taxi for our home of Ouijambo. Which is how we found out about the folk songs thing (see I didn't forget). On our way back, a soju laden Krista begged our Korean cab driver, a cranky old guy who was more eyeglasses than man, to put on "English radio." He refused. She, being drunk, asked several more times. He said no, even louder, each time. Requests for Korean radio were similarly declined. Now I'm not sure who started in the back seat, but someone, improbably, decided to start singing the folks song, "You Are My Sunshine." To date, no one has taken responsibility for this folk explosion. Likely no one ever will. Folk songs almost always come out of nowhere. This was no exception. But, in grand camplike tradition, we all quickly joined in. We even added drunken counterpoint and harmony to the diddy. I think I did both. We were almost up to "The other night dear, while I was sleeping..." part. That's when the old guy stopped the cab. Now I've known a folk song to engender a certain degree of hostiitity before. It's been warranted in most cases. But this guy? Near as I can tell, Joan Baez beat his children to death and set fire to his house while singing "he's got the whole world in his hands." Either that or this guy never got over Dylan going electric. In any case, the screaming started and didn't stop until we were out of the cab - halfway to our destination and in the middle of nowhere at 6AM. Then Glasses The Cab Driver demanded what was on the meter. Krista responded by calling him a number of provincial Canadian epithets and general North American swears. It was a very inclusive diatribe. It all left the driver so flustered and angry he leaned out the window, screamed something Korean, flipped the bird, THEN pointed and shouted the only English curse he seemed to know. As he drove off he pointed and yelled "WHORE!" Amazingly, we all agreed he was mostly pointing at me. Given my track record at the clubs, I think he misunderstood the actual definintion of the swear. That or it means something different here. In any case, from now on I will no longer engage in drinking and womanizing and will now confine my efforts solely to drinking. Dangerous? Possibly. But I hear it's a good way to pick up nurses here. Provided I lay off the folk songs during courtin'. Your pal the whore, Riley Ray
Toqueville	Before I can tell you about kindergarten parent-teacher day here at the Wonderland School, it helps to understand what my teaching day is like. From 3 to 7:30 PM I teach various levels of conversational english. I work with kids ranging from 8 to 14 in small classes and fun coursework. There, I help them understand grammar, subtext and why "PH" and "F," for no good reason, make the same sound. For fun, I occasionally explain that phrases like "letting the cat out of the bag" don't necessarily involve prior animal cruelty. Overall, from 3-7:30 PM, I'd say it's challenging, interesting and, ABC afterschool Specials be damned, occasionally rewarding. Honestly? I think I even like it. For better or worse, and it's mostly better, that's my afternoon. In the mornings I teach kindergarten. At least that's what the school calls it. I call it my daily 4 hour hostage crisis. From 9:30 to 1:30 I act as warden to seven 5-year-olds who drool, hit and eat clay. For fun they try to pick their noses so deeply it looks like they've lost a knuckle. What do I teach them? How close to homicide they can push a grown man who once said "I love kids." Now it didn't start like this. I was gonna be the FUN guy. Really. On day one, I was uber-teacher. I was full of energy, jokes and unconventional teaching methods out the wazoo...and I got a huge wazoo. My goal was to be the complete OPPOSITE of my former 1st grade nemesis, Mrs. Strauchler. She was a bitter educator who smelled of witch hazel and, legend had it, strangled cats for fun. No, I was Captain Cool Teacher, vanquishing ignorance with zeal, zest and James Brown songs. And then my kids killed the Godfather of Soul. The ironic part is I did better than most and much better than Mrs. Strauchler ever could. My crew would've eaten her like a Nutter Butter. Kindergarteners, and my hellions especially, are cunning, have no fear and can sense weakness like jungle cats. They would have taken a bookbag to Mrs. Straucher's bad knee in 20 minutes flat. No, Captain Cool Teacher was defeated by deaf, Korean midgets who all know Tae Kwon Do. I was overmatched. I was going to be full of energy? These kids have fusion reactors under their yellow sweatsuits. I knew jokes? Funny to them was yanking out my arm hair to understand "fuzzy." As I said, even my lone James Brown tape snapped under the Digimon sneakers of a stocky boy named Jake. Seriously, when the hardest Working Man in Showbizness gives up...well you gotta think that's a bad sign. Still, the fact is, while 5 year olds are a handful in any land, these kids ARE different. I'm not whining. Seriously. It comes down to discipline and culture. Apparently, in Korean society, the disciplinary standard is to let kids run wild as rabid Red Sox fans until they hit elementary school. On their offspring, parents here impose no punishments, no rules and - from what I can tell from the 2 inches of rice on the floor after lunch - nearly no table manners. The spoiling is so profound, you'd think there was a nation of grandparents raising these twerps. But, as with all things Asian, you know there's got to be a catch. A strict yin to this hang-loose yang. And there is. The reason these kids get so spoiled till age 5 is that the day they reach elementary school...the party's over. Big time. According to my afternoon classes, from Elementary School on, these kids are in the educational equivalent of a chain gang. When they hit 1st grade, kids usually go to TWO schools a day. They get home at 8PM on a weeknights and have anywhere from 4-6 hours of homework. Weekends? Weekends are Saturday classes and a Sunday of studying. Finally, completing the learning smackdown, when kids get vacations, their parents make them take either study prep seminars or "intensive subject day courses". A kid in my 5:15 is trying to work up enthusiasm for a weeklong "MS Office Computer Skills" tutorial...for spring break. All told, from age 6 to 18, these kids are sleep deprived, overworked and pathologically afraid of textbooks. But, till then, I got my kindygarten killers. On an ideological level I do appreciate that this is their last year of freedom in the Korean Educational Lockdown. On a practical level though, I spend most of my morning screaming, cleaning and wishing the kids who know martial arts would stop trying to kill the kids who don't. If I'm lucky, somewhere in-between, I get them to say "big" "small" and "bathroom" instead of pointing at their crotches and yelling "PEE PEE PEE!" Which brings me to the Parent Teacher conference. I was put into a small room with six of the seven women who took credit for these three foot tall sociopaths. With me came the school's administrator, Jean, who would serve as my interpreter, and her two aides. The mothers, as a goodwill gesture, brought me some flowers. Well goodwill or they were being early for my funeral. Either or. On that note, I started by talking about my teaching methods. I talked about connecting kids to concepts and reinforcing those concepts through repetiton and recitation. I talked about our songs and I talked about our games. In fact the only things I excluded from my teaching method chat were all references to whacking fighting children on the heads with magic markers and yelling "SHADDUP YOU FREAKIN DEMONS!" at the top of my lungs. All in all, it went fairly well. Then we played the telephone game, Korean style. My misunderstanding of the Parent-Teacher conference concept comes down to the aspect I thought mattered the most: Criticism. All teachers recieved a short note before the week of the conferences. It said a number of general things in general terms and had only one phrase bolded: "do not tell the parent anything negative about their child." I took this to mean: "put all criticism into constructive terms and don't tell a mother her child is a murderer outright." Ooooh, I was wrong. After putting considerable effort into writing long critical evaluations of each child I discovered at the conference they weren't given to the mothers. A mistake. Or so I figured. When it came time to talk to each mom about their child, I just looked at my copies of the evaluations and gave them the jist. The jist was then translated by the school administrator, Jean. About five minutes into the first kid's mom, I began to suspect there was some censoring going on. As it went on, I began to figure out how much. The kids I was now talking about, they were the VERY bad ones. I mean like misdemeanor bad. But as I talked, their mothers were smiling. When I criticized, they just smiled more. That's when I got that this was as rigged as a New Jersey garbage hauling contract. Administrator Jean's aides, who were observing, laughingly related later the type of "interpretive theater" that they bore witness to. Here's a sample: ------------- Riley: "Your son has a lot of energy. If he can just find an outlet for it that doesn't involve hitting Mark with a book I think he'll be okay" Jean (translating and editing into Korean): "Your son has a lot of energy. He'll be okay." Mother (sensing something more and questioning): "Does he have discipline problems at school? What should I do to control him at home?" Jean (translating and editing into English): "She wants to know what she should do with him at home." Riley (sensing nothing and trying to get at the free refreshments): "Teach him that hugging is better than biting." Jean (Translating into Korean): "Make him read his storybook." -------------- Picture 1 hour of that and you get the idea. Around halfway through, once I realized that none of this was being conveyed to the parents I said the hell with it. With Jean the censor cutting it all off anyway, I dispensed with any couching terms and just started to tell the mothers plainly what was wrong with their kids. --------------- "Your son Mark? He's a crier. I mean a big crier. If I ever showed Charlottes Web this kid would die of heartbreak." "Sherry is very pretty and she knows it. She's been using that to make the boys fight over her. She really seems to like that." "James likes to sleep sometimes. But he doesn't snore." "Josh has perfect pronunciation but he says his words very slow. With a drawl. Your son sounds like he's from Texas." ----------------- Jean really shot me a look over that one. I think the mothers started to get a little wise when I would say forty words and then Jean would say five. Frankly, Jean's being underused here. She's clearly destined for important work writing press releases for the NRA. If they did notice my censor at work, they didn't say anything. In fact, after it was over, I got a nice round of applause and all the mothers went over to the cashier. In a move not seen at any of the other parent teacher conferences, they all immediately paid their tutition for the next two months. According to all involved, my little confab concluded the most successful Parent-Teacher conference they've had yet. In fact, later that night, the school's owner, Mr. Kim, took all the teachers out for dinner to celebrate. Afterwards we adjourned to a Noribong - a Korean singing room - so that Mr. Kim could regale us with several chrouses of heavily accented "My Way." If that's not a celebration of success, I don't know what is. All things considered, after it was over, I got the feeling I might have been too hard on myself. For a while there, in that brief window, I was even suspecting I must be a pretty good teacher after all. Hell, those kindygarteners were going to learn English after all, even if they couldn't make the "th" sound. Of course, then I went back to work. Today I resumed whacking the kids with magic markers, separating them from eating what they spilled on their shoes and unsuccessfully teaching the concepts of "front" and "behind." This morning, holding up a picture of a dog in front of a horse, I asked James about the dog and made him pick from only two choices - front or behind. He got it wrong. I asked him twice more. Twice more he got it wrong. That he got it wrong three times with the same answer isn't suprising. Surprising was that in each case he answered "left." Then I reminded him of the answer. I wrote it on the board. WITH arrows. I then asked James if he might like to change his answer. He nodded. He did. He said "up." On the up side, he didn't say "right." Or better still, "elephant." That's what Mark was convinced it was. Elephant. I said it wasn't and then recanted when he started crying. I'm not sure which is worse - that someday that kid is going to think hear the word "behind" and think there's an elephant chasing him or that he's can't tell a horse from an elephant. Or a dog. Either way I'm betting he'll cry. Mark's a crier. In any case, the lesson to be learned here is that, in Hollywood or Korea, one should never believe their own reviews - good or bad. If you do, reality will inevitably remind you of the opposite by "accidentally" putting kim-chee in your pocket with a bad alibi. And if that isn't something to live by, I don't know what is. Riley Ray
Toqueville	Today is Budda's birthday. Or, as my Korean students say "Butanem." Or "Buchanem." Or "Butchanem." According to my kids, I haven't said it right yet. I think the last time I called him "Buchanan" and they only giggled some as opposed to alot. I say the name of a right wing idiot and they hear the name of a fat holy man. You can take from that what you will. In any case, in honor of the spiritual master, today, I've decided to walk the middle path. In this post I'll tell you a little about a lot of different things here in Korea. I figure I'd start with something I've noticed about Korean kids here, and the South Korean people in general: I'm not sure they can die by conventional means. Yeah. I know. I'll explain. Let's start with the near fatal collisions that the kids here call "crossing the street." As I've previously stated, the chances of ending up a traffic fatality here are just a little bit lower than getting regular mail delivery. To my thinking, the effect on every Korean mother with small kids should be obvious. You get a tube of Krazy Glue the size of a pepperoni stick and physically attach your kids to your apron till age 14. If you can also instill a deep-seeded fear of crosswalks, it would probably help. And yet that's the reason I'm not a Korean mother...aside from the lack of asian ethnicity, children and a uterus. It seems the plan for local moms here is not only to let their kids run into traffic, but encourage them to take along their little brother. Then, combine this quaint tradition with the U.N. officially recognized third worst drivers in the world. What's that give you? A nation full of seven year olds creating their own daily X-Game event. Now, have I seen any hits? Any accidents? Any Hyundai bumpers wearing Garanimals? No I have not. I've seen so many close calls I could make a Fox Special out of it, but not one injury. These kids grow up fast. They live like stuntmen, fight like Irishmen and pick their noses with joyful abandon. Yeah, charming mental image. But I actually have to see it everyday. Still, aside from the Darwinian traffic mothering process, it is, once again, tough to blame the kids themselves. I mean an eight year old is bound to be a little edgy if he's been smoking half a pack of cigs a day since he was born. And growing up fast? Well that'll happen if you come out two years old. Oh, believe me, there's an explanation. Let's start with the age thing. Now, as I always saw it, the whole age and birthday thing, aside from those unlucky enough to get Feb 29th birthdays, was a relatively simple affair. You come out on a day. 365 days pass. You turn a year older. End of story. The world doesn't turn faster in one part than another so everyone, short of the leap year pariahs, goes through the same thing at the same rate that you do. On the upside, it's all democratic and equal. On the downside, I turn 30 in February. Man that hurts. All in all though, that's the process and everybody does it the same way everywhere. Right? Yeah. Except in Korea. In a move that will surely delight the pro-life factions of the world, when a child is born in Korea, he comes out and is...wait for it...1 YEAR OLD. That's right. Upon his introduction to cold air, circumcision and ass slapping doctors, a child comes into Korea with a full year under his belt. Now according to the copy of "Our Bodies, Ourselves" that I read in the library at age 9 for insight and NOT naked pictures, the Korean 1 year math is obviously off by three months. But, still, awkward medical figuring or not, you still have to appreciate some of the sentiment. A kid comes out 1 year old because he had life from the moment his father said "Was it good for you too?" It's crazy but it makes sense in a philosophical kind of way. The next part is just cracked. When a kid in Korea is born he gets a year. Okay. But, when the Chinese New Year comes, if it falls before the kid's first birthday, he gets...are you ready?... ANOTHER year. In fact, let's say a child is born the day before Chinese New Year. He comes out 1 year old. The next day? BAM! Two. Two days old and two years old. It's the sort of thing that could make Mr. Rogers drop dead right on the spot. But here's the last age-math thing: ALL children who are born before Chinese New Year (like 50%), will get those two full years I mentioned before added to their total age. As a result they will turn, on their first birthday...three years old. Bring on the toilet training. Why do they do this? There's some speculation it was to boost the ranks of the the army by getting around age barriers and just making everyone older. One guy I asked said it was something ceremonial having roots in a certain holiday...though he couldn't remember the ceremony...or the holiday...or his exact age. Still he was an excellent taxi driver and he didn't hit any kids. Me? I think the whole thing was concocted by the Korean tobacco industry. There's a huge social taboo for women to smoke in public here and I think the whole thing was a ruse to get more men going on coffin nails younger. Makes me think the whole deal was concocted by some guy in marketing. With his head up his pipe. It's nearly pointless. Thing is, as I was mentioning before, kids here already have smokers coughs by the time they hit pre-school. How? Well let me hork up a lung and I'll tell you. FYI: Not only does Seoul have one of the highest fatality rates by auto in the world, they also have, by city, one of the highest concentrations of cars. High polluting cars that nearly all run on diesel. Then there's the US military. They use facilities, equipment and vehicles that are all, highly polluting. And there's a lot of them. How many? Enough that they need me to run the, - enough men to keep me from getting lucky with any woman in Korea. That's mind numbing number right there. Additionally, even for Asian cities, Seoul has an incredibly high industrial component in the form of unregulated factories, coal and oil burning power plants and local gift shops. Yes I said gift shops. Look there's something going on there okay? Gift shops don't need four chimmney's to sell jewelry boxes. Anyway, combine all the above with an incredibly high rate of tobacco use, cheap cigs and the smoking laws that let you light up in a daycare center if you want. Then throw in a Korean EPA that aggressively responds to litter in the street, but only seems to care about air quality if something is actively on fire. Smoldering is a judgement call. All totaled, what you get is an environment where day to day living for non-smokers, according to some estimates, is like smoking half a pack of smokes a day. Half a pack. More in the summer when the air quality goes from "bad" to "I can't see my feet." That goes for old people, adults, kids and even those newly born 2 year old babies. I call it Seoul smoking. I set on that name somewhere between the time I discovered that Seoul's air was making me hork loogies 10 times a day and the time I decided my spit tasted like All Tempertature Cheer. Yes, cheery image. And once again, I'm the gomer who has to live it every day. So, how bad is the pollution? Enough to risk fashion ridicule. For the conservative female element, that's a big deal. Many folks here, girls included, wear surgical masks during the day to filter out some of the toxins in the air. I think, mathwise, it makes you cut down to three Seoul Smokes a day. It's odd looking I'll grant you, but it's odder still to see the brownish black residue in the middle of the mask where their noses are at the end of the day. When I first saw the masks, then saw the residue, then figured out what it meant...well it really struck me. Of course that's also because I though for the first month the masks were a tribute to the TV show "M.A.S.H." But back to Seoul Smoking. Here's where it gets fun: if you do something strenuous your breathing becomes more intense and you Seoul Smoke MORE. Just running for the bus is like one extra cigarette. Those kids playing soccer? Two pack a dayers. That idiot jogging? He'll be dead by the time he's forty. So remember those kids running across the streets into dangerous traffic? They're not only risking death by Daewoo truck they're also lighting up two extra Seoul Smokes while they do it. And that nose picking thing? It isn't a hygiene issue, it's respiration. They're just trying to clear a breathing line. Yet through all of this, the kids, and the folks here in general, remain as optimistic and energetic as a bunch of baptists in the bathtub. And, even with the cars, the smoke and the masks, the total life-span isn't too far off from our much vaunted one in the USA. You gotta appreciate that. This nation is filled with a lot of resillient people. Or aliens with superpowers masking as Koreans. Either or. Now I realize that's a stretch but bear with me. Last weekend, our Boss, Mr Chin, took us all on a bonding weekend. Companies here in Korea do them all the time. The idea is that if you take a bunch of your employees on a retreat to get them to form connections with one another, they'll be less likely to quit. Given a retention rate here at the Wonderland School slightly less a George W Bush "grammar advisor," one could say our bonding weekend was overdue. And with payday just a week and a half off (the prime day for escape from Wonderland), we set off for the Mountains. It was in a beautiful place in the south in a province I could not name or pronounce now if I had a gun to my head. So don't ask. The first thing I noticed? The well appointed highway rest stops. These things are like palaces with noodle stalls. The men's bathroom in one had a mural on its arched ceiling that easily rivaled Europe's finest men's bathrooms. The second thing I noticed? I could breathe. Having been in something of a lethargic state since I got to Korea, it was slowly dawning on me that maybe air quality had something to do with it. For the past month and a half I have had insomnia, a bad cold and something on my feet that is either not serious or is hoof and mouth disease. I'll keep you posted. But in the fresh air of the countryside, here, I was REBORN. It was amazing. I had the energy of ten men. All because I could breathe. I would never make fun of one of those Aftrin commercials again. After a seven hour bus ride, when we got to Maisan mountain...I was ready. Someone mentioned that the translation for Maisan was, literally, "My Mountain." Indeed. That's what I would make it. MY Mountain. Of course that meant that the phrase "Maisan Mountain" meant "My Mountain...Mountain." I didn't dwell on it. Translation wasn't my strong point. So when time came to head up and climb the mountain, I got right in front. I took off eagerly up the path. And then the stairs. And then another path and then up a steep embankment where I worked up a sweat. And then past a pond where you could ride duck boats. But then it was back up the mountain. Finally, I arrived at the top of a long flight of narrow stairs by teetering rock mounds assembled in spiritual towers. I went past the temple of a dead yogi who was considered one of Korea's great Mountain Buddhas. Then, behind the temple, up a short path that was barely there, I stood. I was on top of the mountain. I had a woman take my picture with my arms raised in victory. The woman had three children and they had all made it up here in a faster time than me. Still, I did get here first. That was MY victory on MY mountain. About five minutes later, someone else from MY group pointed out this was the temple at the base of MY mountain. MY mountain was up the steep slope to my left. Soon after, I was bearing up THAT trail. Victory would be mine yet. First, up a steep slope. Then, around a rocky bend. Then past a few more temples. And around a guy selling soft serve ice cream. Okay, but these concession guys were everywhere. Seriously. I'm not sure who was handing out the cotton candy concessions in Korea, but when someone offered "rocky half trail #2 on Maisan" these guys jumped at the chance. Plus it was good cotton candy. Anyhow, past trails, over rocks and up stairs I climbed. Higher and higher across increasingly less developed paths. Finally I arrived at the top. A place with a view of southern Korea that went on for miles. And a guy selling fried squid. I savored. I enjoyed. I looked left. Another freaking staircase. Now I was ticked. This was MY mountain. If I had to beat it like the Buffalo Bills in a Championship Game, dammit I would. I headed up the stairs, remarkably new in condition. I thought, "Finally. Maybe these trails are getting better." When the metal stairs gave way to sparse stone steps I thought I might be mistaken. When the steps gave way to steep loose trails of dirt I knew I was mistaken. And then I saw the rope. All at once the trail stopped and was replaced by thick gauge rope. The line was tied from tree to tree up the mountain with large handhold knots every three feet. This was the trail to the top of the mountain. An unsupervised, unmanaged thick twine tied to half buried shrubs over dirt that slid if you breathed on it. A US National Park Service tramway this was not. On cue, some of my fellow Wonderland teachers - who had gotten ahead of me by not stopping for the tasty smoked chestnuts - came falling down the rope. Jono, our UK teacher, remarked it was like "the subway with rope burns." Danya, an Israeli neo-hippie type came half tumbling as fast as her open toed sandals could take her. Rodney our Newfoundland Canada teacher, a fairly brave bear of man who once almost lost his leg while fishing best summed up his half hike. "Hey boy. It's a fookin dethtrap. Fook's sake." Poetic...but not enough to stop me. They didn't make it. I would. I started up the rope and, quite eagerly, charged up the mountain. Hand over hand, I pulled. From tree to tree I jumped and swayed. At one point a stray rock absently kicked from above missed me by a foot. My hands were red, my clothes were dirty, I was even passing Native Koreans on my way up. Inxeperienced female natives in inappropriate mountain climbing shoes but natives. Here I was. I was climbing MY Mountain. After about an hour, that whole My Mountain charm had worn off. From pinky to thumb I had a big welt at the end of each arm where my hands used to be. I was sweating like a sheep in a room full of Scotsmen. I had robe burns on my ass. Don't ask. I was all but ready to snap a "you were here" pic with my fun-saver disposable camera and head back down. And then I saw Mr. Chin coming up the rope. Well NOW, my boss was coming, with Mr. Jun, the school administrator AND Gloria, a fellow teacher in tow. A Canadian teacher. I couldn't be shown up by a Moulson swilling Canadian. I was going up the mountain. And I was gonna beat all of them. A second wind now in me, I flew up the hill. I even started singing Sam Cooke's "Chain Gang" for a little bit...until even the half hearted "ooh..ahh" parts were winding me. Better to conserve energy and climb I thought. And so I did. Everytime I got tired I'd look behind me and see the boss and just keep going. This guy might be able to drink me under the table, eat peppers that could take the paint of your car and sing a better karaoke version of "My Way" but I was gonna be FIRST up that mountain. Yes I'm petty. But petty's a better motivator than you'd imagine. An hour later, we reached the summit. With the last of my energy I bounded up the well worn trail and I saw the giant pile of rocks that stood as a monument to all who ascended the peak. I gingerly took a stone from the ground, placed it on the mound and looked around, marvelling at what I had accomplished. Mr. Chin followed. Then Gloria. Then the stone faced school administrator Mr. Jun. He shook my hand and I knew that even he respected the enormous physical undertaking we'd just done. Mr. Chin came over, clapped me on the back and pointed. He smiled and said, warmly: "You want a coke?" That's when I noticed the Korean guy with the cooler. I was panting, sweating, DYING to get up the side of this mountain. Rope burns, welts and pebble in my pants that would not come out till I ate some fiber. But there THIS guy sat. The coca-cola cooler guy. He was relaxing uninterested. He was mocking everything thing I thought I had done. He was doing it in a lawn chair. I had climbed up the mountain. He had done the same thing and had managed to get a cooler, ice and 50 cans of Coke up the same rope strewn, steep hill. Plus a freaking lawn chair. Frankly, I didn't think it could get any worse when Mr. Chin came over with cold cokes for we formerly valiant mountain climbers. That's when I found out that the cooler guy was only charging 50% more for sodas than the guys at the bottom of the hill. 50% and that's it. He had a cooler of cold soda - cokes - on a remote mountaintop an hour from competition with the squid guy and he wasn't even price gouging. The New Yorker in me cried a little that day. As we headed down the mountain, I gained a newfound respect for the already established resillience of the South Korean people here. Whether they are simply an amazing nation or invulnerable aliens masking as Asians, I may never know for sure. (I know that latter explanation goes a long way to explain why the women won't mate with me though.) But what I do know, and what I did learn that day is that in Korea they have plenty of park concessions, the Korean Park Rangers don't seem to pick up that many dead bodies and what seems difficult to me is just a walk in the park to the folks who live here. I took some comfort in that as I stumbled my way down the trail once more and took one last look at the coca-cola cooler guy. Then I saw him take out his beach umbrella. Son of a bitch. RR- PS - Next time: Riley Ray gets a date
Toqueville	Well I guess I have to stop whining about my love life. Not that it hasn't been fun. The dating dearth has given me time to write and paint, even try my had at some carpentry. Really. I'm no Bob Villa, but can recondition a desk, modify a picture frame, I can even tell you when a wall is poured concrete as opposed to wood. And when said concrete wall won't take a nail no matter how hard you pound it in. Of course that did take me six nails to figure out. And two hammers. But, given my improved building skills, another month of no-love life and I woulda built a fine looking deck. I think maple. Maybe with a light varnish. And a month after that I would've thrown myself off it out of sexual frustration. Luckily, all decks aside, this came in the nick of time. In the last two weeks I have been on five dates with a beautiful woman here in Korea. She works with me at the Wonderland School as a Curriculum Researcher. While I considered workplace dating pitfalls before I made my move, I also took into account that I was almost ready to order an ugly mail order bride so she'd get here quicker. Plus, this particular woman thought I was cute. So I made my move while she was still loopy. Her name is Nami Cho. She's thirty-two, she's beautiful and she's Korean. That's right, Korean. Now I realize I postulated the chances of me getting a shot with a Korean woman here were slim. Actually I put them somewhere between the Red Sox winning the Series and George W. winning the nobel prize for Physics. Well I stand by my previous assertions. Nami is what you'd call a special exception. For one thing she speaks near perfect english. She majored in it during her Education degree and even studied for a few semesters in Philadelphia. It's not NYC, but it's close enough. All Philly folks who wish to take exception at that point can, respectfully, stuff it. I'm 8000 miles away, I'll figure geography however I want. Then there's the fact that she is western-minded, funny as an Irishman and, quite possibly, the funkiest native Korean woman I have ever met. She dresses like she knocked over an Urban Outfitters, she dances club-style really well (but minus the attitude) and she can sing all the words to "Brick House" by the Commodores. "Brick House." I would assert these are deep and meaningful qualities in any woman, regardless of global location. Speaking of "Brick House," well...how to put this? The hell with it: she is one. Truly. She's mighty mighty, she's letting it all hang out. While this is no slam on the Korean female physique, the majority of the women here, for better or worse are a size three and look like asian versions of Kate Moss. Nami? Marilyn Monroe. Whatever you're thinking, make it prettier and you'll get Nami. The math here isn't hard: there is, near as I can count it, ONE young Korean woman with a western type figure in the entire city of Seoul. I've looked. Often. And with vigor. There's only one. Nami. And she's dating me. It the sort of thing that can make a guy very religious. Or make him wait for lightning to eventually strike him in the loins. At the moment I'm kinda on the fence on that question. "But Riley," you might ask, "aren't you the least bit intimidated? She is after all a 32 year old, hourglass-figured, incredibly funny, very intelligent, world-traveled BILINGUAL woman. Not a girl. A woman. In every sense of the word. Do you not feel unprepared? Unqualified? Not the least bit insecure?" The fact is, under most circumstances like this, well I might. But then I just think of one thing: She's got a curfew. That's right. A curfew. Nami is a thirty two year old woman, who in any other city in the Western World, would be leading life around by the nose, painting the town red, taking it to the next level, insert next cliche here. But here? In Korea? If she doesn't call in by 10 PM her mommy gets mad. If she wants to stay over she has to send her mom on a two day vacation. And if she doesn't get home by midnight? She gets grounded. Say it with me. Grounded. Kinda makes you see the whole "You don't like it? Then move out!" line that our parents took in a whole new light huh? IN fact, from what I understand of Korean culture, the whole "treat you like a teenager" thing is the norm. Women here, and a lot of men, if unmarried, may end up living with their parents until they're forty. You heard me, forty. Sometimes even longer. But until those wedding bells ring, children, and women especially, are considered as immature as 12 year olds. They live at home, they keep their rooms and the parents treat with the fantasy that they're still growing teeth, as opposed the fact that they're getting closer to dentures everyday. On the upside, I think when you hit menopause you get an extra hour added to your curfew. Nonetheless, the whole immature regard for women thing...well I won't lie, it's working out for me. Not only does it add a cool teenage vibe to all possible 'makeout on the couch' sessions, it also levels the playing field. Here in Korea I'm a single guy with my own apartment, a job and I don't live with my parents. And I didn't have to turn 50 to get any of it. I guess it's true. No matter where you are, every woman just wants to hear three little words. I just didn't know in Korea the words were "Location, location, location." Thus my status equalization and confidence with Nami. I do, however, realize said status equalization ends with a plane ticket west. But till then, I've got charm, romance and a stack of articles about airline safety problems I'm thinking about leaving on her desk. So lemme tell you about the first date. Now with a girl like Nami, you really have to consider what kind of outing you want to do. This is an important first impression, so I gave it some thought. I wanted something exciting, something unusual and something that would get her blood pumping while she was next to me. I decided to take her to one Seoul's great amusement parks. Thrill rides, skill games and the universally agreed upon aphrodisiac, cotton candy. It was a lock...right up till the sky turned gray and wet its pants. So I took her to the track. Now for all you doubters out there, Harvard once did a study showing that roller coasters and winning at gambling were two things guaranteed to produce the same endorphins that we make when we think we're in love. Do either of the above when you're with someone - BAM - instant connection. Of course the catch in said statement is "winning at gambling." And if you think I'm going somewhere financially painful with this, you're psychic. That, and I could have used you two weeks ago to pick me a horse in the 7th race. Don't get me wrong. The basic idea behind the track thing, it actually worked out. Nami was game, even excited about the whole idea of going there. She'd never been there and she'd lived here most of her life. So score one for Riley Ray and originality. And once we got there, the whole smoke filled beer smelling betting area filled with the desperate and semi-desperate alike, was romantic in a kind of noir kind of way. We were playing the ponies, hanging with Korea's underworld, eating corn dogs and coke. Okay so it wasn't all noir. Sue me. At first, everything went to schedule. We got to the Seoul Racecourse during the sixth race on Saturday. It was still raining but it gave me a chance to expound about the concept of "mudders" in horseracing. I went on for about five minutes saying stuff like "These babies can ride the mud. Oh yeah. Mudders. Mud." Then I realized this was nowhere near romantic first date conversation. So we bought a racing book. I had her translate the horses and the stats while I explained, from memories of my Aunt Kitty and Off Track Betting when I was 9, what the each term meant. The upside is we got to stand close while she pointed at stuff. The downside is so did about 9 guys who followed us till we left. In hindsight, this one was pretty easy to figure. There are a lot of places in Seoul where you'll see a few white guys. The racetrack is not one of them. Now I know what I'd think if I saw me and Nami out together. "This guy is either rich or he knows who killed Kennedy." This, however is not what the chronic racetrack loser makes of the situation. He sees a fairly well heeled white guy show up with a beautiful Korean woman on his arm. To said track-hound this can mean only one thing. "That white bastard's got a tip." And so we began the first of our few rounds of unprofitable betting with an entourage. They weren't even subtle about it. At one point a guy actually leaned in and moved Nami's hand so he could see the horse I'd half circled. Then he ran to the betting window and dropped 10 bucks Korean on it. If I'd known any Korean I might have told him that circle was where I was testing my pen. On the upside, after that bet he stopped following us. The downside is I think I lost 10 times what he did. If I ever figure out the exchange rate I'll let you know for sure. Then I'll cry like my name is Mary. It wasn't so much that we lost. It wasn't even that "we" lost with "my" money. This was a date after all. With a beautiful woman. Along with comfortable socks and beef jerky in bulk, that's the SORT of thing you're supposed to spend money on. No, what miffed me was the ways we lost. We lost betting on race reports. We lost betting on odds. We lost betting on race reports. No sooner did I propose some system for betting or postulate some cyclic certainty than fate would throw it in my face like destiny's cream pie. The best horse didn't win, the old horse could run and the number 7 horse CAN come in first three times in a row. We even lost betting on that old superstitious standby: horse names. Of course I will concede the main problem with that approach was that nearly all horse names here are taken from Korean Mountains. I'm thinking it might have helped to know elevations. So we bet. We pounded on the rail. We yelled. We lost. We repeated. And we slowly lost our entourage. When the greasy smoking guy gave up on us...well I knew the magic had gone. In the last race, we placed the rest of my betting dough on three horses.A longshot, a semi-longshot and a safe bet. It started well enough, our longshot came out of the gate strong. He was ahead by enough lengths to send postcards. If this beauty came in we'd make enough to cover all the losses and pay for a nice dinner. This was definitely the "make up for the day" horse. Then, around halfway through the first turn, Nami looked at our book and translated , out loud, the race report on our longshot for me. It said, simply, "Bad horse. A bad bet." Simple but profound. I think my longshot horse heard it. The confidence loss was immediate. Though it remains hard to prove, and some would say it was simply a jockey error, I insist that nag actually tried to break for the exit in stage fright. Whatever the reason, his sharp move to the right gave the rest of the pack a chance to sail by and make him the tail-looker that destiny, bad breeding and the Korean odds guys made him out to be. Now it was simply a wait. A wait for the end of the race. A wait for Nami to stifle her giggling and pretend to offer comfort. A wait for the age old ritual of tearing of bad tickets and cursing whoever invented the saddle. I've done this once or twice before. Then. Then it happened. Right around the final bend our semi-longshot remembered he was a horse. It's possible he had thought he was a burro, or a donkey or an Estonian track and field olympian who couldn't afford used sneakers. Whatever. He knew he was a horse now and he flew like a Hyundai with no breaks and an impatient driver. He came from the pack back and grabbed the lead by two lengths. He had momentum. He had energy. He had a chance to win us 72 bucks Korean. I wasn't taking chances. He was leading...but I wished anyway. "Let us go out on a good note. Let our horse come in." No sooner had I said it in my head than I realized...I should have been more exact. We had bet on THREE horses in that last race. A useless longshot who had faded like a Deadhead bumper sticker, a heroic semi-longshot who had tried to save our day and...a safe bet. The safe bet heard my prayer. He decided to make me eat it. With the steady resolve of a Jesuit nun, that horse came out wherever they keep nowhere on a track. It passed the horses we hadn't bet on. It passed the horse we shouldn't have bet on. And it passed the horse we did bet on. And our horse came in. The rotten goddamn bastard. As he spoiled our semi-longshot, he snorted and turned away from the grandstand, crossing the finish line with the good sense to look away from the evil eye giving white guy standing by the pole. In the larger scheme of things I knew this was just another day at the track. But, at that moment, if that equine made contact with my eye-curse, he was going to end up a riding pony at a fat kids summer camp. He didn't. He showed his horse's ass to me and headed out to the winners circle. On that poignant note, Nami, smiling, held up our "winning" ticket and showed me, at two to one odds, on a two dollar bet, our substantial haul. We won four bucks. Korean. It was enough to cover the train fare...as long as we didn't transfer. And as the sky finally began to clear up, we took that train ride and continued the date. I was determined to end this thing on a good note. First we went to one of the city's many videogame parlors and tried our hands at two games. One was virtual motorcycle racing on actual cycles. The other was one of Korea's popular dancing games, where the goal is to emulate, physically, the moves given to you by the game on a video screen. Had the motorcycle game been real we would have broken our legs several times over. Had the virtual dancing game been real, we SHOULD have broken our legs at least once to end the humiliation. We each got a 15 out of 100. We both agreed the dancing game was broken. Then some pimply faced Korean teen got on. He began to channel 3 decades of "Soul Train." While yawning. He got a 95. I almost kneecapped him on general principle. We followed with an American movie, "The Mexican." In the states I would avoid, this movie like a footrash. In Korea however I'd pay 10 bucks to watch two folks read the phone book on the big screen. Which was more or less the plot. From there we segued to a cheap dinner at a noodle place in Insadong and ate something that Nami ordered and translated as "moderately spicy." When my lips finally stopped swelling from the spices and the flames on my tongue died down, we ordered some kind of ginseng liquor. It came when Nami was in the bathroom. The waitress dropped a giant bowl in the middle of the table. I figured it was some sort of soup that they had forgotten to give us. I ladled some into my bowl. It was cold. Great. Then I tasted it. I decided it was the worst soup I had ever had. Then I drank it all. Then I ordered another giant bowl. Once the bad soup had taken my legs from me, and Nami a little as well, we took a lightly stumbled ride on Seoul's efficient subway home. Being on the same line we had time to make small talk, review the day and take in the very expansive date that had happened somewhere along the way. We'd lost a lot of money, seen a crappy movie, proven neither of us was destined as dance kings or pro cycle racers and my lips were not expected to regain sensation for at least another week. As her stop arrived, Nami stood up and got ready to get off the train. She squeezed my hand and smiled. She said five words. "I had a great time." And she was gone. I looked at my hand and I started getting a glow - and only half of it from the bad soup the locals said was ginseng liquor. She had squeezed my hand. That was something. That was a start. That's when I was pretty sure that I wasn't going to have to spend so much time fighting the concrete in my home anymore. That I was going to stop reading and painting so much. That I would probably not be as well rounded. And that I was going to be a lot happier as a result of it. At that moment I made a specific wish. "Please let me get a chance to keep dating this woman. Give me that opportunity and I'll never ask for horse help again. Also, finally, if you could, let me get the chance to kiss her. Preferably more than once." Then I thought about it. "And if you could heal my lips up by that time, that'd be dandy." RR-
Toqueville	I realize I haven't written for a bit but I've been waiting for a picture to attach at the end of this letter. And I have. It's cute and cuddly and if one of you guys says a single bad word about my blond hair you're off the mailing list. Anyhow things are afoot here at the Wonderland English school. Mainly just little kids I step on and blame the heavier little kids for, but other things too. For one thing, on the topic of accidents, we are setting a Wonderland School record for children injured in a week. And it's only Wednesday. Here's the tally: -A 5 year old boy ran full on into a door handle as another kid opened the door. -A little girl named Joy sprained her arm when three of her friends tried to hug her. At once. Said arm was re-injured when Joy came back from the doctor and aforementioned friends tried to hug the arm to make it feel better. -A little 4 year old girl named Rusia watched the delightful Disney film "Dinosaur," a film filled with awe, wonder and appreciation of the fragile balance of life. What Rusia took away from it was that the whole concept of "scratching with claws" looked pretty cool. Her assault tally stands at three in her class alone. -Jon, one of mine, was upset at having lost at dodgeball. Joan, the most intelligent and sensitive girl in my class, tried to cheer Jon up by tickling him. With near Bruce Lee swiftness, Jon whacked her with full Tae Kwon Do in the belly doubling her over. Before she could even lose her breath, Jon took advantage of her prone positioning to whack her in the back. The incident required two ice packs and an extra dessert for Joan and one long trip to the principal's office for Jon. The principal tried to explain to Jon why Joan needs her spleen and why it would be bad for him to break it. I'm not sure the speech took. But my favorite injury of the week involves my stocky kindergartener, Mark. Remember him? The crier? Well Rodney, the bear like teacher from Newfoundland is a big fan of the WWF and likes to roughhouse with the kids. Yeah so you see where this is going. He picked up several students, held them above his head and twirled them, threw them or tickled them. Then he picked up Mark. It's helpful to note here that, while he appears normal, Mark MAY be the single densest child I have ever met. This kid either has knees made of concrete or he's eating chrome blocks for fun. In either case, Mark ran at the empty armed Canadian and Rodney grabbed him. Now, Rodney, picking up the sweaty monster that Mark is on a running leap wasn't quite prepared for how heavy he was. It's possible a forklift wouldn't have been. Mark went up, slipped through Rodney's giant hands like a greasy porkchop and fell five feet to the ground. On his head. Apparently, to everyone who saw the incident, they pretty much assumed Rodney broke Mark. I mean really. He made a sound like a sack of marbles dropping when he hit the floor. There was, in that split second of quiet, the very real possiblity that maybe he even did something to his neck. Of course then Mark started crying, which was a relief. Then he kept crying for a good three hours...which was less of a relief. Mark's a crier. Turns out that he had some good reason to. In the fall his head was left undamaged even by redness, let alone by a bump - all of which supports my "Mark is made of lead and Legos" theory. But, still crying, hours later AND holding his arm I convinced the school administrator to take him to the doctor. Turns out he lightly fractured his wrist. For once, and this is a big occasion for Mark, he truly DID have something worthwhile to cry about. Upon his return to the classroom, he was greeted like a Medal of Honor winner for his bravery and cool sling and cast. For the normally unpopular Mark this was a whole new world. He was confident and secure and well liked. It lasted 12 and half minutes. Then he started crying about getting that crappy purple crayon and became his usual social outcast self again. Mark's a crier. I think the most remarkable thing in the whole episode is what the mother did after she was truthfully informed of the whole incident. I mean, if this was a US school, some 6 year old would be looking at a hefty settlement offer, a school would be remorsefully calling its insurance agent and some local paper would be gleefully running Rodney out of town on a rail. But this is Korea. Mark was back the next day, happily I would add, and his mother simply asked me, in broken English, if I could please help Mark with eating his lunch if it wasn't too much trouble. No lawsuit, no angry words, no scarred-for-life child afraid to come back. Just Mark, saying "Mista Kee-o-ran-do-ko" too loud and racking his brain figuring out what to when we sang the song 'clap your hands' that day. No repercussions. None. Not even a reprimand for Rodney. In fact, later that day, given how much trouble Mark is, someone asked if I had paid him to drop Mark. I said with all earnestness, I would never have Mark dropped. Gagged like a circus monkey yes, but dropped no. But I did spend a good hour after that trying to figure a way to accidentally drop Jake to see if it would help his pronunciation. For those who care, the details of dropping the school owner's son proved too difficult to finagle. Still, it's nice to know it's a backup plan for my king of the lightning jab, Jon. Although if I use it, my backup story is self defense. In other school news, the curriculum for my kindergarteners has now changed. My old coursework? Teaching the kids concepts and linking those concepts to new subjects through repetition. My new role? Karaoke host. Here's the deal. Most Korean parents trot out their kids like parlor games when friends come over. This is to show off the child's new skills, how much they've grown and possibly to show that no Kia trucks are using them as bumper art at the moment. The main skill the folks like to do for show and tell is English. And the way they like to show it is songs. English songs. Preferably upbeat English songs that involve some sort of physical movement. Like "I'm a little teapot," "London Bridge" or my personal favorite "What's the Matter." In that one some forlorn kid says he's hot, sick, tired and thirsty. It came in handy one day when I explained "hangover." Anyhow the edict came down: Our kids' parents all think their younguns are well-taught, happy and fulfilling their potential but, unless these kids start singing every word in "Row Row your Boat" clearly, mommy and daddy are taking their kids elsewhere. So we're the school from Fame now. Nevermind that most of our kids will now SING "Row your Boat" but have no idea what a boat is. Forget that my kids can practically talk to strangers in English now. And that whole "we are here to teach" mantra the head office drilled into us is apparently a goner too. The new phrase of the day is: "We are here to make sure the tuition checks keep rolling in." Not that I can blame anyone. This is a business. We're here to help it. But unlike the US there isn't even the pretense that we're doing something based on education here. IF the parents all said "our kids like eating paste" we'd serve it in four flavors. So they say "the kids must sing" and we turn into a broadway touring company...and in the hour where it's not lunch, bathroom breaks or playtime I teach my kids to sing. Luckily they were vague about SPECIFIC singing requirements. Last week I taught them "The lion sleeps tonight." All they got right was the "wimbaweh" part. Frankly, with my mispronouncers I gotta keep it simple. This week I taught them "Ma-na-ma-nah." You know it. This one: "doo doooo doo doo doo...Ma-na-ma-nah...doo doooo doo doo doo...Ma-na-ma-nah...doo doooo doo doo doo, doo doo doo, doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doooo...Ma-na-ma-nah..." And so on. Repeat till the kids are hypnotized or till someone throws up. Okay so there are no real words. With my kids? Simplicity. That's the key. And band aids. And hiding the markers so no one gets "medium" with three Ms mis-tattooed on their head. It's only funny the first time. Besides, next week I'm teaching them "Great Balls of Fire." That's cool, complicated and there's almost nothing wrong with it. I mean unless the kids all start saying "Kiss me baby...feels good..." to cops. Hmmm. Hell, what do I care. That's a curriculum issue. Anyhow I'm ending this by attaching a pic of me and my kindergarten class - "The Peter Rabbit Class." http://albums.photopoint.com/j/View?u=1694563&a;=13011870&p;=49023624 In the photo we are all saying "Peter Rabbit number 1!" Or most of us. I think Jake is saying "potato." Who are they? Clockwise, starting with the kid in the green shirt, they are Jake, Mark, Jon, Sherry, Josh, Joan (pronounced Jo-Ann) and James. They're good kids. All of em. Even Jake, who's as dumb as a houseplant and mispronounces "cat." Really? I love em. I do. But if you see one missing in the next picture I've gone to plan B. Riley Ray Next time: A bridge too far and girlfriend bliss. Plus more cool A/V action.