Seoul Walking

Four things you can learn about Korea from the fact that I am much more likely to bump into pedestrians while walking in Seoul than in New York:

1. Koreans walk on the left--although they do, like normal people, drive on the right.

2. Koreans, unlike New Yorkers, who all walk at the same brisk pace, have two different paces. One pace, a slow, contemplative, one might say Confucian pace, represents the old Korea: the Chosun Korea of sloped, tiled roofs, Buddhist monks and austere pottery. The other pace, a sort of restrained sprint, with arms fixed at sides, represents the new Korea: the capitalist Korea of poured concrete, evangelical Christianity and K-Pop.

3. There are simply far more Seoulites per square kilometer of land than New Yorkers: 17,200 Seoulites to 9,890 New Yorkers (according to Seoul City Government and nyc.gov, although the Seoul numbers are slightly more up-to-date). And in general there are far more South Koreans per square kilometer of land than Americans: 499.5 Koreans to 32.9 Americans as of July 2007 (according to the World Fact Book).

4. Finally, people in Seoul just stop walking in the middle of the aisle or the sidewalk for no reason. I'm not sure what you can learn from this exactly, but it's true.

Namdaemun Is Burning

In an incredibly odd turn of events, a man set fire to Namdaemun last night. Namdaemun (South Gate) is/was the 600-year-old, wood-and-stone gate that once to protect the edge of Seoul but now sits at its very center. Namdaemun is probably Korea's most revered national landmark, a remnant of the Chosun Dynasty, the glory days of Korea.

I went to the gate today to see it for myself. The entire ramparts of the gate were made of wood, and they are now in shambles. The lower stone base is fine, but the form of the gate, the gracefully sloped and tiled roof, so typically Korean, is totally gone. I presume the painted interior of the gate is destroyed as well. There are plans to rebuild it. No word yet on who started it or why.

Here are some photos I found online. I'll post my own once I develop my film.

UPDATE: They caught the culprit. Here's a story about it. Turns out he was just some cranky old guy angry about money.

Of Protesting

In a recent post, I said that "we need people in the streets." What do I mean by that? Is setting up formal protests on the Mall really going to change things? I'm afraid not; not unless we've got someone like Dr. King up in front of Lincoln. Cindy Sheehan ain't gonna cut it.

I don't know if you remember, but there were massive protests in both New York and DC before the Iraq invasion. Even though 77 Senators supported the war, there was a substantial chunk of the country that opposed it from the beginning. And it is a mistake to say that college students were indifferent. We made up the core group of protesters. And the protests were very well organized. Ever heard of moveon.org? Remember how they first got started: organizing pre-Iraq-war protests.

But what effect did these protests have on policy? Nada. Why? Here is my theory: Protests are not really protests when they are allowed.

I was in Kyoto recently, and I met a man from Tehran. We were chatting and walking, and we ran into a big anti-war protest. A lively, shouting group from all demographics was protesting against proposed changes to Japan's constitution that would allow for a military build-up. Shouting and dancing, brandishing rainbow flags and Che posters, the protesters stood in stark contrast to the austere Kyoto neighborhood. But the really striking thing was not the protest itself but the number of police deployed to monitor it. On all sides, the protesters were barricaded in by troops in riot gear. There was no trouble; it was a model of peaceful political action. I'm sure that the permit to protest was properly filed--the forms were filled out--and the police were only there "for the protection of the protesters."

I've seen a similar thing in Seoul. I've run into two protests since I've been here: a striking union and a very, very small protest against the Burmese junta in front of its embassy. In both cases, the police outnumbered the protesters. (In the case of the strike, this required no small amount of manpower.) But I have to wonder: can something really be a protest, if the protesters are outnumbered by the police?

The police presence sends a very evident message: you are allowed to protest. If we wanted, we could stop you. We are indulging you, indulging your eccentricities. In sum: you are meaningless.

This was the same message I got in New York in February 2003. Although the protesters greatly outnumbered the police, the protest itself was contained. It was barricaded in, forced to follow a route. There were minor scuffles between police and protesters; most of these were provoked by the protesters in an attempt to feel something--to feel like we were actually bucking the law.

If Vietnam-era protest veterans want to complain about the college students today, they should realize this: In the '60s--not only in America but all over the world--governments realized what protest can do to a democracy. To prevent such things from happening again, certain rules were put in place. The idea of protest was legalized, sterilized. In the U.S., a right guaranteed by the Constitution now has to be authorized by a local government. "Public safety" has to be taken into account. And now that authorization is required, if a protest is not properly authorized, then it is lawful for the police to stomp it out, violently. Look at what happened at G8 conferences in the '90s. And now these conferences are held in inaccessible, heavily fortified locations.

The authorization of protests killed protesting. When protests are allowed they are no longer protests.

My friend from Tehran saw the Kyoto protest with different eyes. For him, to protest is an ideal, a remarkable democratic institution that, he believes, could change his country. But I wonder if he's right. If Tehran allowed protests, and surrounded them with troops, do you think they would have any effect? Probably, they would just single out the radicals for, if not imprisonment, then at least public ridicule. If anything, the authorization of impotent protests could kill off--in seas of red-tape banality--a real anti-government movement.

So what did I mean, "people in the streets"? We had people in the streets before the war, and now I'm saying that that doesn't work. If you agree with me that we've got to do something to change our government's policy--especially about torture--then what is to be done? What should we have done, before Iraq, before Guantanamo? Should we stage illegal protests all around the country? If we did, we would be stomped out with tear gas and night sticks. Because of a subtle shift in the notion of the right to assembly, the law would be against us. If the law is against us, most likely the public would be as well.

Or, should we lobby to change the law. Something about that seems absurd to me: lobbying the government in order to allow us to protest without a permit. Still, if a bill appeared that guaranteed the right to protest without the need for government consent, I would support it. (But wait, haven't we got such a law already...?)

Or should we, like the French, fight fire with fire? The recent suburban-Paris riots actually get attention, actually affect government policy, for better or worse. Perhaps this is what protest today must be: flaming cars, baseball bats and hunting rifles. The French always seem to set the standard for protests. And there's something beautifully inarticulate about simple violence. There's no need for policy suggestions; violent rioting sends the simple, far-from-subtle message that the government is doing it wrong. No need to specify what it is doing wrong, or how to fix it.

I'm not actually prepared to do this, of course. There must be another way. But whatever we do, we cannot allow the hallowed status of our government-guaranteed freedoms to hide the fact that basic democratic procedures--protesting, and, perhaps even voting--are ineffective.

Seoul Metro, Line 2

You can't begin to understand living in Seoul until you take the Line 2 subway during rush hour. Packed from fin to gill with commuters, this train makes a loop through the city, from city hall--the Japanese-colonial-era building in the heart of old Seoul--through Gangnam--the brand-new commercial district south of the river--and back again. Everyone wants to get to Gangnam, where I work. Since only Line 2 stops at Gangnam station, while looping through the city it collects all of the millions of commuters coming in from the suburbs.

In the car, commuters are sandwiched together, squeezed as if undergoing some sort of collective medieval torture. With every jerk and sway of the train, the passengers collectively jerk and sway along, like dominoes stacked so closely together that they hold each other up.

On the train, no one talks, no one looks at anyone or anything, no one does anything at all, because doing anything will inconvenience the people around you. You cannot cough, sneeze, answer a cell phone (although you do get service in the tunnel), read a paper or, for that matter, breathe. But rather than complain, everyone endures this as a terrible but necessary part of life, the memory of which will be drowned out by continual bouts of soju drinking.

When the doors open at the minor stations, there is a little sigh, as people relax for one beautiful second. The respite is all too brief. Even if the train appeared too full at the last station to possibly fit anyone more, and even if no one has disembarked, all along the platform men in suits and middle-aged women--ajashis and ajumas, respectively--will look at the open doors, hesitate, and then dive into the mash of people, elbows flying and hands pressed against the door frame to squeeze in.

One stop before Gangnam is Kyodae, Seoul National University of Education. This is a major office area and transfer hub. When the doors open, it is like popping a champagne cork. People spew out in a shower of bubbles. (Or you might think of it like an animal vomiting up it's insides from 40 separate orifices. Depends what mood you're in.) Even if you do not plan to get off at Kyodae, you'd better go with the flow, and then trust your luck to get back on. After fully cleansing itself, the train completely fills again, only to finally empty at the next station.

The subway system, like much of Seoul, appears to be designed by people who knew that they themselves would never have to use it. Although clean, new and precisely run, the Seoul Metro is simply not efficient. If its designers had, instead of building extra-wide platforms and allowing for extra-large cars, built four tracks and run express trains, much of the congestion would be relieved and the average commute would be greatly reduced.

Construction was started on Line 2 in March 1978 and was finally completed in May 1984. Seoul Metro uses chopper-controlled electric rail cars manufactured mostly by Mitsubishi. Probably Seoulites have found a way to increase this number, but each car can hold, at capacity, 160 people. Each train has 10 cars, and trains come every three minutes during rush hours--7:00 til 9:00--in two directions. That's (according to Seoul Metro) 77 trains, 770 cars, 123,200 people arriving at Gangnam station every morning. All told, the subway system carries over 7 million passengers a day! In 2004, line 2 alone carried over 700 million passengers!

With all these people jambed in together, like in Tokyo, groping is a problem. In response, Seoul Metro just recently announced that it is considering introducing women-only cars. I suppose the men deserve the tighter and smellier commute that they are facing. Although I don't envy any woman trapped in a car with over one hundred primmed and permed, muscle-bound, elbow-throwing ajumas, either.

Korean Cuisine: An update

So, I brought some banchun to work yesterday, and it was a huge success--mostly because someone else brought a heap of bulgogi (trans: delicious beef), and I was able to eat it qualm-free. I can get used to this.

While I'm here, I'll let you in on another related observation I've made about Korean eating habits: Koreans generally do not talk while they're eating; they save the conversation until after the meal. But this is not, I think, just etiquette, since it's not wrong to talk a little while you're eating. I think it's just necessary given that all the food is shared. If you're the one who wants to get involved in an extended discourse about politics over dinner, then you're the one who goes home hungry. Your best bet, when eating a Korean style meal, is to gulp down the food as quickly as possible. Luckily, eating with chopsticks prohibits taking big bites, so even if you eat as fast as you can, you're not too likely to choke.

Korean Cuisine: An observation

What I've learned since I started working at an office in which I'm the only foreigner:

The major difference between Korean cuisine and Western is, not the high quantities of garlic, hot-pepper paste, or cephalopods, but the fact that all the food is shared. I went to a great little Korean place on Sixth Street in Racine, and the food was pretty authentic (and delicious). The owner even made her own kimchi. But the meal was totally American, right from appetiser to dessert.

Koreans, when they eat, usually have their own bowl of rice, and then share a variety of banchun, often translated as 'side dishes.' But that doesn't really capture it because the "side dishes," together with the rice, are the meal. In fact, calling them 'side dishes' in English, and the fact that we don't have a better word for it, exactly emphasizes the point I'm making here. The whole structure of a Korean meal is different from the structure of an American, or a French, meal. They do not have appetizers, entrees, main courses, salads, deserts, or side dishes. Occasionally for a large meal, you will have one big helping of meat, but that too is shared. Usually, you just have a bunch of banchun, especially salty things like dried fish or seaweed, kimchi, a bit of cooked meat, or some finely chopped veggies.

This is a great system, I think. When I'm with friends, I'm always sticking my fork into their food anyway. There is no such thing as food jealousy here. But in an office, you can imagine the difficulties. Everyone, especially the boss's sister (who often hangs around) assumes that all the food on the table is fair game. And inevitably, some people bring better or worse things, and there is always a bit of tension as to who is getting a free ride (or anyway, that's how I perceive it). Imagine what it must be like in elementary school! And, as the foreigner, I can't tell if I have to stay out of the system or what. I mean, I don't really know what banchun is or how to make it, so I usually just have my own food, which sits in a little bubble at the edge of the table. (Resolved: Tonight I will stop at the banchun shop, where they make fresh banchun for busy housewives, and bring something tomorrow.)

So, next time you're having some ethnic food, stop and think whether you're having it ethnically. From what I know of Thai and Indian food, there is supposed to be a lot of sharing going on, too. The meal experience is just as important as the food, and this is something that is often overlooked at Americanized ethnic restaurants, even when the food is very good.

One final observation (which did not originate with me): While French/Western cuisine is focused on flavor and texture--aesthetics--Chinese/East Asian cooking is basically an extension of medicine. Much attention is given to what your food will do inside of you, and how it will safely get out. When we talk about cuisine, we would be short-sighted think only about aesthetics. More than merely food or flavor, cuisine is a way of eating and a purpose for eating.

My Trip to Japan, Or How I Totally Underrated Sake

On the day that Abe Shinzo resigned, I was plying the waves of the Tsushima Strait in this hydrofoil-equipped jet ferry, making my way from Busan to Fukuoka, Japan, for my one-day, visa-related stop over.

Now, putting aside the purpose of my trip (which was rather banal), there are a number of really interesting things to report. First is simply the fact that I decided, in the face of modern sensibilities, to travel by train and boat rather than airplane, which has become the preferred mode of civilized excursion-taking. I have always thought that trains are the only real way to see a city--or a country side--because they unobtrusively cut through the back allies, along the river banks and through the rice paddies, affording candid views without disturbing or too greatly altering the landscape. Shops, stands and advertisers all put their best face to the street, neglecting to pander to those lucky train-bond souls who are cruising along without agency to stop in and buy something.

Train stations are also the best place to arrive in a city. Whereas airports tend to be air conditioned and antiseptic, not to mention being of necessity greatly removed from the city center, train stations instantly engulf you in the aura of your new environs. The smells coming from the food stalls and the sounds of the main street welcome you without cant. Now, even though the functioning section of the Seoul Station, and the whole of Busan Station, are each younger than me, each has it's own sort of character, as all train stations do. Not unlike the vaulted heights of Grand Central does Seoul Station's glass-and-steel dome rise above the mingling heads of the travelers. Hurrying through the gates (another benefit of train travel: you without fail arrive exactly at your departure time), you pass through a tunnel and cresting the balcony, with all the trains arrayed in front of you, you descend to your platform as if deploying from the safety of the spaceport down to the lifeless stretches of Mars. This feeling might have been due, however, to the fact that when I left for Busan it was not yet 6 in the morning.

Busan's terminal, for it's part, is a giant (also glass-and-steel) Oriental palace, it's sweeping staircase crowded with petitioners seeking an audience with the Emperor. But inside it has the feel of an unplanned arcade, randomly leading you around the gates and dumping you directionlessly out on the street. Arriving at 9 a.m., I hopped into the nearest taxi and shuttled through the back allies to the International Ferry Terminal. If you are ever planning to smuggle some illicit thing between countries, and you're not simply out for the challenge of it, then I highly recommend ferry travel. Barely glanced at in Busan, I was not even passed through a metal detector leaving Fukuoka.

If you're going to travel by ferry, and you are at all prone to seasickness, let me say that you should definitely find one with hydrofoils. As Casey Baldwin, who partnered with Alexander Graham Bell to build the first successful hydrofoil, noted some 100 years ago, it is as smooth as flying. And fast! The ferry I took has a foil-borne cruising speed of 45 knots (or over 50 mph). At these speeds, we crossed from Busan to Fukuoka in under three hours. As the ferry company explains, "[A] jetfoil is a 'flying machine on the sea' that gets its lifting power not from air but from seawater. Because the density of water is about 800 times that of air, a jetfoil is able to fly above the sea with smaller wings than those of an airplane and at a lower speed."

In passing, it is worth noting a little about the respective military histories of Busan and Fukuoka. The area around Busan was the only part of the country not to be overrun by the communists after the start of the Korean War in 1950. It was the last refuge of capitalism in Korea, and in that sense is responsible for all of the success that the South has seen in recent years. From another point of view, it's initial refusal to submit is the reason that the country remains divided today, since otherwise the communists would have held the entire land, just as Ho Chi Min took all of Vietnam. Unlike Seoul, whose "old city" looks to be at most thirty years on, Busan retains some of its old buildings and atmosphere.

Fukuoka, for it's part, was the intended destination of Kublai Khan when, in 1281, he set out to invade Japan, following the same route I took. But, unlike me, his troops were upset at sea by a typhoon, scuttling the invasion. They did not have hydrofoils. That typhoon came to be christened "divine wind" or "kamikaze" by the locals.

One thing to look out for, however, if you decide to travel by hydrofoil, is whales. Check out this incident, in April, in which a ferry boat's foil was shorn off, forcing the boat to crash back into the water and breaking many bones. The best explanation is that the boat hit a surfacing whale. Suffice it to say that the boat, despite it's calamity, was probably better off than the hapless cetacean.

Ferry terminals, while perhaps not occupying space on a city's main drag, are none the less usually much closer to the city center, and in a generally more interesting local, than airports. Arriving at the Hakata port in Fukuoka, which is surrounded by all manner of shipping terminals, I hopped a bus for the Tenjin section of the city. 'Tenjin', which means 'sky deity' is the deified name of Sugawara no Michizane, a court official from the ninth century who was demoted and exiled but who returned after death to vest fires and floods on the capital. Hoping to apease him, the rulers made him a Shinto god, and built a shrine to him at Kitano in Kyoto.

This happened to be the most happening part of town, and after wrapping up my bureaucratic prostrations and making a few acquaintances, I ventured out into the city to find food and drink. We, my acquaintances and I, found a little ramen shop, which, despite the roaches, turned out to be the best thing that happened to my pallet since I had Spotted Cow ale when I was home last month. If you've only ever had Cup-o-Noodles, then you are missing out, my friend. Fukuoka is know for it's ramen, and boy did it deliver. Suspended in a broth of miso were freshly made, never-been-dried noodles, onions, sprouts, mushrooms and a delectable, thinly sliced brisket. Our ramen sensei, a venerable craftsman, ensured that our bowls were perfectly prepared and then left us alone to ponder the complexities of taste he had created.

After this meal and a good wander, we were hungry again, and so we found a kitchy little traditional Japanese place, which, I submit, was not simply a tourist trap since it had neither an English nor a picture menu. This turned out to be an excellent, excellent place, supplanting, in less than six hours, the ramen's position as my pallet's most recent delicacy. The food was unremarkable; what thrilled me was the sake.

Now, I should give here some background on my previous perceptions of sake. I had had it a few times in cheap sushi joints and dorm rooms, and had pretty much dismissed it as a bland product of Oriental stoicism. I had also previously used sake as an example of Japanese pretentiousness, which I opposed to Korean spirited practicality. Sake, I reasoned, was not more delicious than soju, Korea's watered-down ethanol. But, unlike the Koreans, who, workmanlike, down their spirit in order to wash away the workday and the wife as efficiently as possible, the silk-clad Japanese heat their poison and sip it slowly while sitting at neat little tables and reciting poetry or whatever.

Well, I now freely admit that I've been badly mistake. Whereas soju should probably be banned for human consumption, sake is a marvelous drink, which, once heated, gives off the most pleasing aroma and hits your tongue and stomach with such a blissful, grainy sweetness that you could be happy forgoing liberty, love, even ramen, in order to sit and ponder the mysteries of sake forever.

After dinner, the climax of my journey having passed, I was ready for anything. With two friends, I ventured into an odd little bar and chatted with the tenders for a few hours. The language, of course, was English. Around closing time, we felt like dancing, so we recruited one of the guys to take us out to a club. He led us to an upstairs hip-hop club near the harbor. Too bright and full of Japanese guys wearing too baggy jeans and bandannas, it was not the best club I've ever been to. Still, a good time.

The only notable aspects of the next day were another bowl of ramen and "My Neighbor Totoro" on the in-hover movie. I took lots of pictures; will post the best one when I get them developed.

As for me, I'm back in Seoul now, working at Seoul Academy. More updates on my situation to follow.

Siam Style

Here is my best picture from Thailand. (Siam Square, Bangkok, August 3, 2007)

Cultural Differences

I just insulted an old lady, in front of her daughter, in such a way that she will probably be fuming for an hour and may lose whatever remaining respect she had for foreigners, perhaps for the rest of her life.

What did I do? I answered her question without using a verb. In Korean, when you respond to someone older than you, you must use a polite verb form; using a simple verb without an honorific is too casual and considered rude. But I didn't even use a verb at all! That is the height of informality, the epitome of impoliteness. And it's true that many younger Koreans are not so concerned about these things any more, but she was old! And it's true that I am just a foreigner, but that, precisely, is the point. She will say, "Oh, just a foreigner, just a foreigner. They are all so rude." Or worse: "They are all so ignorant."

What happened? I was just perusing the fruit on offer at my local stand, and, since I'm short on cash, I was thinking, "What is the best deal; I'll look around until I find the cheapest thing." Just at that moment, she came up and asked politely, in Korean, "What do you want?" Now, you have to understand a few things here. First, Koreans salespeople always pester you incessantly, even when you are buying things you'd rather be left alone to ponder, like wine. Second, I had just been thinking about this phenomenon, annoyed with the fact that I would, in all likelihood, not be able to casually pick my produce. Third, while I know the Korean word for 'banana' (it is just 'banana'), I do not, or did not on a moments notice, know the polite form of 'I want'. So, I just said "banana" without any kind of please or anything.

Now, this might not seem so bad to you, and perhaps I am overreacting a little. But it certainly seemed rude to her. And just think, if every Westerner in Korea--or every non-Westerner in the U.S.--makes just one little culturally confused faux pas like that, as is probably unavoidable, the locals are left with scores of negative impressions. How can we, with all of our little differences, mix and still get along?

Seoul: first impressions

Seoul was a heady mix of Chicago, L.A. and Washington, with a large dose of East Asia thrown in. I rode the bus in today, and we made it to the middle of Namdaemun Market before the torrential rains set in again. As we stumbled, in heavy rains with broken umbrellas, trough the alleyways, tunnels, escalators, and teeming stalls selling every imaginable low-end consumable, I finally felt like I was in Asia. No system of rationality with which I am familiar governs this place. So, Alex and I launched a counter offensive, braving the Oriental streets until we made it to the high-end Shinsegae department store and the Attic embassy of a Starbucks on the 11^th floor.

Besides the Market, whose majesty is not photographable, we saw Seoul Station [pictured above]. Built in 1900 by the Japanese, modeled on the European Beaux Arts, the station added a hip new glass-and-steel addition in 2004 without tampering with the colonial original—neatly paralleling, I think, Korea’s economic and political development in the twentieth century.

10 million people live in Seoul, with another 10 million in the metropolitan area (including me!). By most measures, this is bigger than New York. But, let me tell you, New York feels bigger. Maybe Seoul sprawls more, but New York is certainly taller and just as busy. Anyway, I haven’t been around much yet. Let’s see how the nightlife is…

[Note, these are not my pictures--I found them online. I'll try to start taking my own soon.]

Typhoon Glenda

I already got my first typhoon! Well, not really--we are just getting the "vapors" of it as it hits mainland China. I guess it was pretty bad in Manila.

It has been raining heavy here for the past two days. I got wet, but this is nothing worse than the hurricanes that periodically ravage New York.

Observations on the first day

[This post has been delayed a bit due to lack of internet connection. It should be dated July 25.]

Koreans are very lovable, and, for the most part, very western. Maybe I should say specifically American, since I have a co-teacher who is English, and some things, I think, make her feel slightly out of place (e.g. they drive on the right and they speak—and expect to be taught—American English). On the first day, I was met at the airport by Vicki (all Koreans I have met so far have English names in addition to their Korean names—some of the students like to change their English name daily) a high ranking teacher, 30 years old, wearing baggy jeans and a blue tank top and looking about 17. We drove into Bucheon—Vicki, Alex (another American teacher who arrived at the same time), and I, and we turned off the expressway onto a bustling neon-plated square that looked like Tokyo from an eighties movie. “Here is your apartment!” Vicki said. I live in a corner room with big windows that are filled all night with flashing lights and that do not at all keep out the music coming from the Jonathan Jazz Bar across the street. A quick catalogue of recognizable signs seen from my window: “G-zone PC”, a PC room; “Human & Nature Patio Hair”, which, I believe is a salon (n.b. there are swirling barbershop signs on every building); “Photo Studio”; “Q Bar”; two more PC rooms; “Samsung Billiards”; “Edu One Korean Combination Consulting” (I have no idea what that is); and a neon Christian cross.

But, when I woke up on my first morning and went outside for a bottle of water (I was told not to drink from the tap), the streets were deserted. Even now at 11:30am, there are only one or two pedestrians, one or two cars. The lights belie the fact that this is no bursting, bustling Seoul. Walking around midday, the streets feel more like downtown Racine than downtown New York. But go out at night after work, and the streets are filled with revelers. There are wide alleyways off the main streets in Bucheon that are open only to pedestrians and that create a sort of town-square, Roman-forum feeling. At night, all of the bars and restaurants set up tables in these alleys, and each night they are filled. Both nights so far I ate and drank in the pedestrian alleyway behind my school. And both nights I have been compelled to drink more than I might have wanted. Social drinking is a big deal here. Last night, we all went out with the boss. He is a small man, 5’4’’ and skinny, and he doesn’t know much English, but when he speaks you listen. For one thing, he is about as funny as they come, always joking about something, and always always challenging you to down your whole drink. “One shot” they chant. You do what he says: he’s the boss. It is your duty to get drunk if your boss demands it, but it is his duty to pay the bill. They call this the Land of the Morning Calm and now I understand why: everyone is hungover.

I’ll write on other things, including my job, soon. Stay tuned.