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If you can mime "convection oven" better than I can, my hat is off to you.

I am the proud possessor of a Magic oven. Literally, as that is the brand name. The story of my Magic Oven is much like any fairy tale in which our intrepid hero seeks an arcane object and is thwarted at every turn.

Once I decided to buy an oven, I pulled painful amounts of money from the ATM and walked down to Home Plus. I approached the oven aisle, but was oven-blocked by a woman and her approximately 12-year-old daughter, who were intently discussing the merits of a specific model of oven with a saleslady. They were taking up all the space in front of the display of ovens, so I went over to another part of the store, browsed for about fifteen minutes, and came back. Still at it. Okay, maybe I'd only arrived scant seconds into their conversation, and they'd need a little more convincing. I continued to Lewis-and-Clark it across the store to unknown shores of comforters and self-assembly furniture. A further 15 minutes, and I slogged back, sure that now I would be able to point at my oven of choice, use two of my five reliable Korean words, and labor out under the considerable weight of its mass and price. Nope, still at it. It was at this point that an English speaker in close proximity might have heard me make disparaging comments about the oven's dissimilarity from a human child, and the buying process unfavorably compared with international adoption. We may never know.

Finally, after exhaustively comparison shopping among the adhesive hook collection, I returned to a blessedly empty aisle of ovenry. I found a model I could afford (I had budgeted about four hundred excruciating dollars for this) and a saleslady nearby. I pointed at the one I wanted and used my two Korean words. She looked worried, and directed a stream of concerned Korean at me, which I deflected with my +4 shrug-and-idiot-smile shield. The word I caught was "oven," which I repeated and nodded while saying. This led her to feel that communication norms had been established enough to point me in the direction of a considerably cheaper model, that would apparently do everything except tap dance. There were many hand gestures (some very creative, now I think of it) and a litany of virtues of this particular device, one of which was "convection," or so I discerned. She even got out the manual and presented each page to me, Vanna White-style. In response, I moved on to a perfectly translatable nodding with enthusiasm, possibly accompanied by smiling and a thumbs up. It was at this point, dear readers, that I became aware of just how insufficient my Korean was to the occasion, for what was earlier a stream became a torrent, a cascade, a Niagara Falls of Korean, none of which did I understand.

Eager not to let the situation get away from me, I used the universal "one moment" gesture so I could call the BBB, a service for foreigners living in Daejeon that connects you, ostensibly, to a volunteer translator. Indeed, it connected me to a dude who spoke some English, and I tried to explain my situation to him. I then handed the phone to the nice lady, who diverted the Amazon of Korean to flow over his receptive little ear, and after about five minutes of sustained chatter, during which she seemed to forget she was attached to my phone and wandered up and down a couple of aisles, she frowned in a confused way and handed the phone back to me. I picked it up only to have the guy say that he already had an oven, and didn't need one. Gee, thanks, dude.

Next I tried J, the foreign teacher with the best Korean (being Korean American himself), the same one who rescued me from my directional inability in the cab. He was unfortunately unavailable due to a pressing basketball engagement. I was on my own and becoming progressively more anxious about the woman sighing with exasperation and just giving up on my functional Korean retardation.

Having figured out the BBB draws on a series of volunteers at any one time, I gambled on getting a more useful person on a second go-round. This time I got a guy who understood my situation somewhat better, and after a protracted conversation, he told me that she was saying they didn't have the model in the store, and she wanted my address so they could deliver it tomorrow. I thanked him - probably unnecessarily profusely - and gave the woman my information. After great pantomiming of abstract concepts like "before noon," it seemed we had reached an understanding. She escorted me over to a till with a form full of my information and that of the model in question, and I payed in an ostentatious cash wad. Huzzah! With the money I'd saved, I went and got a kitchen cart, so I had a place to put my new piece of fancy science.

I went home, built my cart with all its Korean instructions, and greatly anticipated my oven's arrival the next day.

Well, the next day came, and at obscene-o'clock in the morning (like 9 a.m.) I got a call. Five minutes of very intense Korean later, we had managed to piece together one point of commonality. Home Plus. Well, good. At 9 o'clock, I knew Home Plus was trying to get in touch with me. No idea what about, though. So I apologized, got hung up on, and went about my way, waiting for noon and my oven. I really couldn't stay longer, because it's intensive period, and we have to be into work at 1.

Aaaaaand 12 came and went, and no oven.

At work, I threw myself on M's mercy, who works in my office, is Korean and kindly agreed to come with me to Home Plus and figure out what had happened. She determined that the driver had called me to say he was running late, and I now had the option of trying delivery again, or trying to grab a taxi home with my Magic oven. Terrified of having another incomprehensible phone call wake me up and announce that another day of ovenless desolation was about to descend upon me, I arranged (through M) to pick it up after work.

And glory, glory, hallelujah, dear readers, the promised device is now at home, installed upon its noble caster-borne chariot, waiting for me to decipher its arcane manual and unlock its mystical powers. Triumph!

A Jury of My Peers

Right away when I got here, G used the expression "shame culture" to describe this society. I didn't really understand what that meant, exactly, until after I'd been here for about five weeks. I think he meant it to describe what our students feel, and why they respond in certain ways to various classroom tactics. He is not wrong to use it that way, but the part that I find more immediate is the foundation of shame culture that is brought to bear even on foreigners. By this, I mean the fixation on conformity with accepted norms. One can only shame someone if they all agree on the norms of good behavior and the degree to which deviation is a sin. In Korea, hoo boy is it a sin!

The US is not a perfect example of understanding and tolerance, quaint phrases like, "melting pot" notwithstanding. Still, there is more of what I consider an awareness of other cultures there than here, by about a factor of 6. Possibly 7. Forgive my stupidity, but I had actually, at one point, thought that the homogeneity of Korea would work in my favor - clearly I was foreign, and so clearly they should expect wild and crazy things from me, i.e., not what they necessarily expect of Koreans. Not... not so much, folks. This is an extremely heteronormative, matrimonionormative (yes, that's a word now, tell your friends) place.

I would like to be telling you this from the perspective of a cool, rational observer, who has remained unchanged by what she observes. Mostly, that would be true, actually. I have not changed my opinions, just thought about them more. I defy any reasonably cogent, aware person from a similar background to come here and not think about them, specifically those surrounding that end-out be-all of Korean existence: the romantic relationship. It is impossible to immerse oneself in this culture and be unaware of it. It's not just on t.v., it's all around when you walk down a street, or when people get excited to try their English out on you. Every new person wants to know if you are married, and if you aren't, who you're dating or how close you are to getting married.

In the US, I think two people asked me about that when I graduated college. Out of all the people I know. Two. Here, it's everyone! Not just people you know (because if it were, then it'd be a small number), but strangers! And it's not just adults, it's kids. Notably my students. I lost control of a class once for about ten minutes just because I wore a ring. Not anything that looked even like an engagement or wedding ring, mind you, just a cheap decorative thing I picked up on a lark once. Lost control of a room full of 13-year-olds. Not only did I feel like a lousy teacher, but I was overwhelmed with their expectation. Of course I should be married. Of course I should be thinking about it. They were only 13, and already they knew that.

It is embarrassing to me that I have been so affected by what feels at least a little like a viral campaign. I was here only a month before it bothered me so much I actually asked a couple of friends whether or not I should be doing anything now about my (very) eventual marriage plans (lest the reader forget, I am twenty-two. Twenty-two!) Before that, in the States, this was not even remotely a priority. In 30 days, peer pressure (from people who are not even my peers!) reduced me to the insecurity level of a high school sophomore. (Watch closely to be sure I do not next adopt emo glasses. My bangs are getting so long I am halfway to emo already. Save me from myself). I internalized a Korean norm and was shamed by my noncompliance with it. I suppose we could look at this very positively and say I am adapting, but there are enough of the American and University of Chicago norms still present that I am deeply embarrassed to have been swayed so far out of sorts by a place I am, fundamentally, visiting.

I hope, dear reader, you have patience enough to bear with me as the needle on my meter of self swings back to some kind of middle-me ground. I'd like to be writing this as me-in-Korea, but I don't want that to be a totally new, neurotic version of myself with a strange hybrid of extreme standards from both America and Korea. We here at Chez Johnson Daejeon are hard at work at boxing up the crazy and getting back to normal. Further, hopefully more objective, bulletins as events warrant.

To the Bank, to the bank, to the bank bank bank

I have accomplished great things, dear readers. I have graduated from college, I have moved across the world with minimal catastrophe, and a week ago, I managed to break an ATM. In Korean.

Needing, as many people do, money to go about my day, I left my apartment early enough that I could go to the bank, take out money with my handy-dandy passbook, and be at work right on time (the bank being closer to work than the apartment). First, a moment of triumph as I successfully traversed the narrow, twisting ways of reiterated food outlets and got to the bank on my very own. Full of confidence, I approached the ATM. I informed it that I wished to take out money from my account. It requested my passbook, which I inserted correctly. I was then asked for my first code (4 digits).

It bears saying at this point that when I went in to create this account, I went with a TA whose English was not the best I've ever come across, and we spoke to a bank employee whose English also left a deal to be desired. There was great confusion over my 4 and 5 digit codes (I needed to have both), because apparently, one of them was too similar to a number on some piece of personal i.d. (I never use my birthday, dear readers, it does not make me feel nearly crafty enough). I entered three different codes, and thought I knew which had been accepted for the account-founding.

So I gave the machine my 4-digit code. Immediately, I was presented with options for quantities to withdraw. I made my selection and was asked for my 5-digit code (over which there had never been confusion, and which I entered with great alacrity and, dare I say, skill). The machine whirred, spat out a receipt and my passbook, and promptly went back to its home screen. You may have noticed that at no time did it give me money. So, thinking I had, perhaps, misunderstood something, I went through the whole process again, reading extra carefully, only to have the exact same outcome. At this point, I became concerned that, in fact, the school had not deposited my paycheck and something was seriously wrong.

I took my passbook inside the bank proper and took two numbers, one from each machine (which were thoughtfully labeled very clearly in Korean) just to be sure, and accidentally asked to speak English in Chinese to the first lady who saw me. She directed me to a woman with quite passable English to whom I explained my problem. She looked up my account, saw that indeed, I had money to withdraw, frowned a bit, and then came out to see if my experiment was repeatable. It was! When it gave me another receipt sans money, she read it and informed me that I had been entering my 4-digit code wrong. Remember, that's the first code you enter. So the machine had gone along with this charade of service after that, giving me three screens of false hope before telling me what I'd done wrong. In Korean. The lady was very nice, and said she could help me reset my code to a new number. After she had, we trotted out to the ATM again, where I inserted my passbook and told the machine I wanted some of my money. It asked me for my passbook. Yes, after I had already put it in.

It was, at this point, the time I was supposed to be at work. My lovely bank shepherd ushered me inside again and opened the closet that led to the back of the particular machine, whereupon she immediately commenced poking its innards, and I immediately commenced biting my lip and looking terrified. Some fifteen minutes later, with the help of two other smartly dressed ladies, the last of whom apparently hip-checked the ATM into submission, I got my passbook back. Still hadn't got any money, though. My savior slogged out one last time to the ATM bay and (using a different machine!) managed, at long last, to extract cash.

And you thought blood from a stone was hard.

Ladies...

... South Korea is a heretofore unexplored galaxy of really terrific shoes. Tragically, they are all sized for the petite among us, which you, dear readers, know me not to be. So if you have an appreciation for the art of the ladies' shoe not to be found any larger than US size 8, you should totally come by. That is all.

As you were.

Curse you, Self/Other!

Noticed today my brain is still attenuated to Asians-as-minority. Every time I see an Asian person, the hindbrain that notices People Different from Me pops up and says, "Lo! An Asian! Take notice!"

It's exhausting.

So, here's the thing...

I like church. In general. I've met lovely people in churches, I've had one of the best jobs I've ever had in a church, I like their acoustics and what a lot of them are trying to do in their communities, and I understand what most of them are about. Huzzah. That said, I believe that God is pretty okay with my sleeping in when I'm tired. I was raised in a very Protestant way, which gave me the impression that it's totally cool for me to be all, "Hey God, sorry about Sunday. Next time, fewer Pixar movies, more church." Basically, I like the Protestant idea that individuals can have a personal relationship with God if they want one, and a church is a nice, but not totally necessary, thing. I am also totally cool with people who think something different about God, or don't think there's anyone up there at all. You know, whatever makes you happy. The thing I am not is evangelical. I have no interest in telling people what they should be doing vis-a-vis their souls. So knowing all that, dear readers, let us plunge into the story of my Korean church experience.

Wiser, more experienced people than I may know (and indeed, told me later) that most Korean-American Christians are part of the Very Evangelical Branch of the Presbyterian Church. I was young and foolish and didn't know this when I accepted a recommendation to Onnuri Church in Daejeon. I decided to try this one first because it was between my apartment and school, which meant it was nearby and that I absolutely knew how to get there. I was really hoping for a place with a choir for English speakers, as I have no musical outlet at this time and am desperately seeking one.

It was dire. When I walked into the low-ceilinged meeting room, I almost walked right back out, but I had already been snagged by the Elder, P. So I got the intro and sat through the Christian pseudo-rock, which included a re-purposed song by Lonestar. LONESTAR. It was especially alarming because after the service, it seemed that they reverted to being pretty normal, tasteful people, two of whom had spent some time in Chicago. Except that they told me to pray about stuff to an extent that makes me feel like when stopping at a crosswalk, I should pray for guidance about getting across. That was before they started telling me that it was highly probable that I was the answer to a prayer, and an angel sent from God. (Which is, you know, totally true, but... yeah, no, didn't dig it). I do not plan to return.

So, things we have learned from this experience:

I am so spoiled. So, so spoiled. For years, whenever I was part of a church, the best musician was in charge of the music, and it was great (even, ahem, when that musician was me - Epiphany, represent!). Also, the people preaching were mostly very academic, articulate people. I was not so fortunate here. Though the pastor was a lovely person, his diction and organization were underwhelming, and he was really down on science, which is something I expect in Texas, not in the host city of Korea's MIT. Anyway, my whole life up to now has made me a church snob. Still on the hunt... if anyone knows a good place to get your choir on in Daejeon, speak now. There will be no holding of peace.

Happy Belated New Year!

So, friends and relations, it is a new year and a new decade. Growing up under a large rock as I did, I have spent many a New Year's Eve quietly in the backwoods of Maine, sipping champagne and singing Auld Lang Syne in front of the fire as I reflected on the past year. It's not a bad way to do things, really, despite what notions of elite, glamorous parties Hollywood has inspired in you. This year was hardly more exciting for me on a personal level, because I spent it quietly reflecting on the past year (no fire or champagne this year - budget cuts, you know). I hope you spent it in whatever way seems best to you, and that in its afterglow, the new year looks bright indeed. (If you have no desire to know anything more personal about my past year, look no further, but go your way with my good wishes).

So... 2009

I'm sure it seems obvious that the biggest change in my life was moving to the other side of the world, but if you asked me, that's not what I would say. I think the biggest change was graduating. I'm on the Other Side (of the Desk) now, for the first time in 17 years of school. It's a strange feeling to be so autonomous in my learning. I imagine I will someday dive back into academia and feel at home in many ways, but at the moment I am exploring the world of full-time employment. It is brave. Also, new.

I think moving is probably second on the list in terms of importance, and it comes with a confession: I took this job because I was angry. I was incensed, actually, that someone kept accusing me of not having thought about my future, of having done nothing to provide for myself when I graduated, because I never talked about it. So I looked for a method of provision that would make the biggest statement, and here I am. I don't recommend this method for decision-making, because I think it is spectacularly unlikely to result in anything good - I was just lucky. I'm very happy to be here, actually. I like the country and the people, and I like my job so far. Also, holy mackerel, I like the food (food post coming soon!). So moving has turned out okay. I regret only the motivation for my move, not its actuality.

I learned a lot this past year, too. A lot of it was about people I knew; how they'd grown, especially. Being eternally childlike (as I am, dear readers, as I am), it's eye-opening to see everyone around you getting all... mature-like.

I did a lot of things in '09, some things I'm proud of and, like everyone else, some things I regret. Obviously, in 2010 I will not only be perfect but accomplish the following: lose 20 pounds, write award-winning novel, end world hunger, cure cancer. (I know at least one of you is going to go to town on my anti-feminist inculcation and why I wrote "lose 20 pounds" as my first goal, it's okay, go ahead). I hope all of you have lists both ridiculous and wonderful, that you regret little and create much, and that if your 2010 brings you to Daejeon, you look me up.