The Trot Must Be Stopped

As I get ready to leave Korea for 6 months on a honeymoon that is bound to change my life, I am gathering a growing number of things that I will definitely miss while I'm gone.

One thing I will not miss, however, at all, in any capacity, is the trotters. The trotters are the women in high heels who trot on the sidewalks to get in front of you in order to trot up the stairs before you do, so they can clunk down the escalator before you do, shimmy through the turnstyle before you do, and trot across the platform and push themselves into the last inches of space left on a full subway car, all before you do.
The constant little click-click-click-click-click-click-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK that follows me down the sidewalk has been eating away at my commuting soul and I can no longer handle it. Every time they slam their little spiky shoe onto the concrete chips away at some happy place within me, the happy buffer I have wrapped around my heart of Rage is diminishing.
And why don't you just leave your house like, oh, I don't know, 10 seconds earlier? Because it's not a constant trot that propels these women in front of me (which is actually not what bothers me. As many people who want to may walk in front of me, get on the train before me, whatev. I'm over that. I leave my house at the right time so that no matter what happens, I don't have to hurry. Or trot.) it's 7 trots and then regular walking for a few seconds and then like 4 more trots and then regular walking. And seriously, it's the stupid little noise that kills me.
Oh, and don't even get me started about the people who are transferring and run with abandon up the stairs onto the platform like hungry dogs just to stand in a line.
I mean, I get it that it's important to be on time for work. But geez! If you have to be to work at the same time everyday, get your shit together and stop showering before work, duh. Because that's how I make it to work on time. I don't ramble out of the bed with an hour to get ready, fry me up some eggs and pancakes, check my email, and leisurely shave my legs and then take my time pulling on my ridiculous stilettos only to trot it to work. Heck no. I am sleeping until the latest possible moment, giving myself a maximum of 7 minutes bathroom time which includes morning pee, washing face, brushing teeth, applying extra coats of deodorant, making sure I don't have boogers in my nose, and possibly doing something to my hair. Also, mourning the fact that yet again, I will walk out into the world with only one eyebrow because I didn't remember to pluck those suckers. Add about 2 minutes to sniff my clothes to figure out if I can wear them again before pulling them on and heading out the door.
That is how you avoid trotting. Or, you could just not wear high heels. If you wore awesome silent-soled shoes that didn't do the clicking noise and feel like the equivalent of a paper cut filled with lemon juice on my ear drum every time your child-size foot slammed into the ground with trot-force, you could run, sashay, tap dance your way to the subway and cram yourself onto that car every day if you wanted to and I wouldn't say a word. Okay, maybe like one or two words, but it would not warrant letting The Rage out to play in the sun. Negative.

Although I am still not totally on board for hiking through the Himalayas for two weeks (this is the husband's dream and I'm just following him and praying that perhaps I can take some strong drugs to make the time and pain pass more quickly), I am ready to be there. Because there are no high heels in the Himalayas. And I'm definitely ready to be in India for a few months. And there may be high heels there, somewhere, but not where I'm going. And being in the States, where there are plenty of high heels, many of them on my friends and family, will not bother me because we do not find ourselves trotting to the subway on sidewalks in the South. Praise God.

End Rage.

How to Slack Off

Feast your eyes upon Polar Bear Girl actively engaged in Seoul Metro transit. (Or, a really easy way to get out of writing a post, but still looking great because I've posted everyday this week so far. Plus, it's my 101st post for the BlogO, and I figured instead of throwing the list of 101 Things You Probably Could Have Guessed But Don't Care Anything About up here like most of the cool kids do, I'll just post 101 pictures of myself. Or however many I feel like before I get bored with it all.)

Exhibit A: Serious Bear. Bringing serious joy to fellow commuters. 

Exhibit B: Secret Bear. Ready to spill the beans if offered appropriate number of donuts. 

Exhibit C: We're not real sure. 

Exhibit D: Wait... what the crap?

Exhibit E: Surprised Bear. 

Exhibit F: Tell It To You Straight Bear. Not related to Korean Bears in any way. 

Gratuitous Exhibit: Donut=Pure ChubbO Ecstasy. 

Yep! There are coffee beans on my chocolate donut. Doesn't get any better than that. 

How To Make Koreans Smile Before Noon

Or,

How to Make Koreans Smile On the Subway:

Yep, I'm doing it. I'm rocking the polar bear hat. I have a better picture of the polar bear hat rockingness on the subway, but that picture is on our new camera. And our new camera's memory chip does not work with my memory chip thingy, even though my memory chip thingy says it does. So, when I figure that out, I'll put up the better, more appropriate picture. And perhaps I should be a more self-conscious blogger (as if that's humanly possible) and just wait for the right picture to write this, but whatev. I'm tired and I have a bajillion tons of gooey yuck in my sinuses that make my head hurt when I bend down to help my students write the letter A. So, sub-par picture it is. You get the idea, right? Adult-size white girl with huge eyes gets on the train and wears this hat with all the seriousness of a Louis Vuitton headpiece. They love it! I mean, everyone on the train is either pretending to be asleep so that they don't have to give up their seat to the older person standing in front of them, or they're staring at the foreigner. So, I decided to spice up the second option. I got close to 10 smiles on the way to work this morning, made Angie choke on her breakfast 김밥 when I walked into school, and even got a 귀 여워 (Korean equivalent of cute) from the Hyundai lady who bagged my kimchi and lone potato this afternoon. 

My kids LOVED it. They all squealed with glee as they exited the elevator this morning, reminding me of the plagues in the Old Testament that came in waves. I was giving out Polar Bear High Fives all day because the sides of the hat run long like a scarf and turn into little paw mittens. Today, as I rock and rolled it down the hall, celebrity style as only the foreign teacher can do, every child called out, "Polar Bear Teacher! Polar Bear Teacher!" Yep. I wore it all day long. And it was fabulous. And the guy at Tom n' Tom's who makes my tall iced caramel macchiato everyday (yes, iced even in the winter because I'm drinking it inside where there is heat!) gave me a huge smile. And normally he's so somber. I want to talk to him, have a real conversation besides just ordering, saying thanking, and telling him it was delicious. He is one of the reasons I am getting back into my seriously focused Korean studies. That and because all my expat friends are shaming me whenever we go out in public. And because one time, in March of 2007 to be exact, Kenny said, "When you speak Korean, it's like eating chocolate." 

It's one of those things where people think it's a joke and they're completely thrown off when  you see that you're wearing your ridiculous hat in all seriousness as if it were not a ridiculous hat. Although I know that my hat is ridiculous, I appreciate it and I will continue to wear the hat so that everyone on my morning commute will start calling me The White Polar Bear Hat Girl instead of just The Weird Girl when they think about me in their heads. Which is quite often, I'm sure. So, if you see a Polar-Bear-topped white girl bobbing around Seoul, give me a shout, yeah?

Say Kimchi!

Kenny and I took some of our wedding/future fund when we visited the States, used the rocking exchange rate to maximize our won and bought a freaking awesome camera. I don't know exactly what it is (I'm not the camera expert by any means) but it's a Canon EOS something. The names here are not the same in the States, so even if I knew exactly what model and number and all that our camera was, it wouldn't really matter to all the exposaroonies out there. I heard my sister's wedding photographer say it was probably the Rebel XSI. But who knows. I'll get all that info and add it here later for the hundreds of photographers who live in daily anticipation of my photo posting. Riiiiight. So, we got the camera. And we made sure to purchase a wide-view lens as well, because what will the Himalayas be without a wide-angle?

And. It. Is. Awesome. Thought I'd share the proof with you guys! 

This is one of my favorite pictures, pretty much ever. This was taken at Kenny's house and that's my mother-in-law! Isn't she beautiful?  

Wide-view lens, Seoul Metro station, waiting on Hein to take our second round of engagement photos in a small cafe. 

The dreaded transfer from Line 2 to Line 8. Not bad on the weekends, of course. But picture this entire hall packed from wall to wall with commuters. Traffic jam!

And there's proof of that donut I ate! Yep, I'm at Krispy Kreme. And let me tell you, it's hard to pass up Krispy Kreme. You know how you can stop at the ones in the States when the "Hot Now" sign is on and get a fresh donut? Well, in Korea, the "Hot Now" donuts are handed out free of charge while you stand in line to put in your order. So, you can get free donuts and then decide you don't want anything else and move on. This is Kenny's strategy and it seems that enough people want other kinds of donuts and coffee that it's profitable for the Krispy Kreme to hand out free hot, fresh donuts. It's awesome. I had my free donut eaten before I pointed to the Mocha chocolate donut on my plate (topped with choco-covered coffee beans! Yes!) and asked for an Iced Caramel Macchiato, my caffeine drug of choice. 

Of course, you can tell who hogs the camera. But I really don't mind. He's trying to teach me a bunch of stuff and I'm really excited to learn. But I still have a tendency to just point and click! Right now, I'm learning how to focus or unfocus on certain objects in a frame. It's fun and I'm so glad we'll have a great way to document our could-go-disaster-or-triumph honeymoon! 

(Oh, Honeymoon Update: We're skipping Tibet altogether and this makes our heads hang low, letting our chin get to know our chests a bit better. But the permits we have to have to get in and the group tours we'd have to take to get them are a little pricey for our taste and we couldn't get the train from Beijing to Llasa going in the right direction. So we're heading straight for Nepal and the Annapurna circuit. Which will freeze all our body parts and we'll probably die. But whatever. We'll have damn good pictures documenting our demise! After Nepal we'll spend a few months in India, volunteering at Mother Teresa's house, visiting a few missionaries that Kenny knows through his father's work, and generally honeymooning in our hut on a beach. Oh, and wearing saris! And eating curry! Woot.)

On another note completely unrelated to this post, which is something I know you regularly thirst for, I am MAKING myself meet a bunch of people tonight in Korea. A bunch of other expats who write incredible blogs. I can't read all their blogs too regularly, because it starts to depress me. Ah, writers. How petty and jealous we can be! But anyway, the point is that I am making an effort to socialize outside the fiance. He may be coming (probably not) but I've sworn myself to participation no matter what. And I totally had a dream about Roboseyo last night. A very weird, awesome, dream in which he owned a huge boat that had two Olympic size swimming pools and allowed me to wander onto it whenever I pleased and he hosted an engagement part for Kenny and me there. It was totally strange and I wore my wedding dress into the pool to thank everyone for coming. And then I was self-conscious because I wasn't wearing a bra underneath my dress. And there were puppies there. And a lot of people were there: Ruthie Martin Kolb (new mommy in real life), Jennifer Wilson McCaman (whose dad took us to her house that was down the street from the boat), and the guy from ZenKimchi was there, another blog I read. Isn't that strange? I guess it's a sign I should definitely go and meet these folks if I'm already dreaming about them! And sometimes, Roboseyo turned into Doogie Howser and that was awesome. 

Digression #53: If you get a chance to go see the British film Happy Go Lucky, do so. But do not under any circumstances get the jumbo caramel popcorn and devour it all while only sharing small handfuls with your almost-husband after having had four spoonfuls of awful school bipbimbap and a piece of foul kimchi for lunch. Just see the film and enjoy a regular size popcorn and make sure you share. A lot. 

What the Crap Wednesday: Winter Edition

Dang. It is cold. 

Last Friday, when Kenny and I got back to Seoul and went past our stop on the bus, it was still pleasant to walk outside back to the house. Saturday, it was yucky and rainy, but it wasn't really that cold. Sunday, I shouldn't have worn only a sweater. And Monday...

BAM! It was winter. Like, unbearably freaking cold winter. Like, your tongue sticks to the flag pole winter. The wind is the killer. It'll getcha. Walking from the subway to work is the worst, the wind biting through all my layers and causing me to utter moans and protests that probably remind the commuting Koreans around me of a constipated polar bear. There are no words, only the strain of all my muscles as I try to catch a breath through my clenched teeth. It's the middle of November people, and it feels like January or February. What the crap?

To counteract the unbearable cold, of course, is the unbearable heat of the subway. Because I must wear a shirt, a fleece, a jacket with a hood, a scarf wrapped around my face, all topped with my black winter coat (that now totally fits and I can so move my arms), I am hot in the subway. I am hot beyond hot with all the other wrapped and muffled and coated commuters on the Metro. And because it is apparently now winter, the Metro staff in charge of the air vents on the trains seem to think they are not necessary. But take a minute and think about it: there are still one thousand of us piling into the same small car, being mushed into Metro Purgatory with nothing to hold us up but the bosom of the ajumma behind us pressed into our back and the oversized handbag of the trendy young girl in our spleen. And we are all dressed for the Arctic. How does air conditioning not make sense right now? What the crap?

I am also forced to wear leggings under my jeans, because man, have I mentioned the wind? It is not joking. The wind is serious this time of year with no sense of humor whatsoever. And so, I don the leggings and pull them up over my bellybutton in an attempt to keep my midsection snug and cozy. But when I get to school, I sit on the floor with my kids (which I am going to have to rethink. Chairs from now on, I believe) and because we have ondol heating, our butts burn! And when you've got leggings under your jeans and you're sitting on a hot floor, you've got a veritable sauna in your pants. And let me tell you, no matter what country you live in, Sauna Pants is a serious condition. It can lead to Chafing Pants and other moisture-related and unpleasant situations. 

Let's recap: 

Outside= Freezing with Wind Intent on Killing Us All

Subway= Hell 

School= Sauna Pants

Say it with me now, altogether! WHAT THE CRAP!

Stand a Little Closer

"...the subway gave us much more than a way to work and back home. It gave us an object of pride and fascination, fear and loathing. It gave us a permanent topic of conversation and a perfect excuse for being late. It gave poets a new muse and moviemakers a new set. It gave warmth to the cold, a bed to the weary and a captive audience to anyone with a cheap guitar. 

But it also gave another gift, much less appreciated and more important, one that changed the city fundamentally and forever: the gift of proximity. In other words, the subway made us sit together. And stand together." 

The above is from a book I'm currently reading, Subwayland: Adventures in the World Beneath New York by Randy Kennedy. And although the New York subway and the Seoul metro are a world apart, I think this idea of proximity is universal, and maybe even much more realized here in Korea. For proximity in the U.S. involves American ideas of personal space and privacy, culturally based guidelines on staring and physical contact, and proximity here... well, if you've read any of my posts on Rage in the A.M., you know about the reality of Korean proximity. 

I've been in a weird place emotionally this week for several reasons. One of the main reasons is that I've been here almost 6 months and I'm still realizing how unsettled I am. I discovered Monday that one of my most valued friendships has run its course, and I'm still trying to catch my breath. Keun Ha is dealing with headaches (MRI was clean, thank goodness) that are probably stress-induced and I'm inclined to believe I'm helping the stress sometimes rather than relieving it. So, after an odd Monday-Wednesday, Thursday morning I found myself on the train as usual.

And there was no Rage. 

 He was tall, wearing a navy t-shirt. He was wearing glasses and his nose was round. His hair was shaggy, but not messy. He had his earphones in and was standing next to me, hanging onto the handles with both hands, like me. He was enjoying himself on this morning, sometimes closing his eyes and mouthing the words to his song. He was warm. Not physically warm, although that may have been the case. But I'm talking about a warmth I can't necessarily define or explain. His arm was touching mine and instead of moving every which way possible to keep anyone from touching me, I simply enjoyed being close to this human being. I didn't move when he inched closer to me to let someone stand on the other side of him. I felt comfortable. And that's not something I normally experience on the subway ride to work. 

It reminded me of driving. You're driving down the interstate and you begin to notice that the car in front of you is headed in the same direction at the same pace. You become used to looking at his taillights, you unwittingly memorize his license plate, you imagine he is listening to the same album with the cruise control on, his hands resting comfortably at 4 and 8 like yours. And all of a sudden he exits! Without any warning, not a kindly blinker or anything, he's gone. And you realize you have no idea who was in that car, but it felt nice to be traveling with someone, heading in the same direction. So you adjust yourself in your seat, shifting in your realization that you've just become emotionally attached to a car. 

And I transferred at Jamsil, willing this tall, oblivious man to follow me. But he didn't. Once more my telepathic abilities bow in submission to the language barrier. I mean, really that's obviously the only reason he didn't get my message. 

But I was thinking about how thirsty I must be, how starved for community I am here. And I'm not talking about just spending time with someone in the same room, although it seems that's all it would take at this point to satisfy me. I want to be with like-minded people, those who are seeking to love, to serve, and to connect in a way that is only found between humans. I am hungry for my friends, particularly those I can no longer have, and those that are too far away. 

So here I am. Participating in this community, where our greatest desire is to be heard, to be read, to be considered of worth just because we are here, just because we are writing. 

I'm going to go downstairs and sit in happy communion with the Coffee Shop Lady. She doesn't speak English and my Korean is so very poor, but we sit together and we smile at each other and we feel together. Sometimes proximity is a worthy substitute for genuine fellowship, because sometimes proximity is all you have. 

I Reserve the Right to Rage

So, there's a lot of intellectual debate floating around the Internets over this way. Most of it is about complaining expats and why they complain and what they complain about and... well a lot of stuff. For the last link, scroll down to the comments to get to the meat.) It's kind of taking over the Korean blogs. And when I was reading all that stuff, I was like, Yeah, you know, I complain too much. Maybe everyone is tired of my rage. Heck, I'm tired of my rage. Dang, I wish I could retire the rage.
And so I stepped back. I reflected (as I'm known to do from time to time) and I felt that perhaps it was time to move on. But then, my Thursday morning commute happened. And I snapped back into the reality that is Rage in the A.M. and I was reminded of all the reasons I complain. Korea just lined them up in a neat little row and every single one kicked me in the butt as I passed by.
Then, I also remembered that as author and perfector of this blog, I'm entitled to write whatever I want.
Whatever I want:

So, for a while I'd been avoiding metro purgatory like an ajumma avoiding the sun, with her oversized visor and frilly parasol. But Thursday I needed to be on that train, on the same train that everyone else needed to be on. Normally, if I find I'm going to be in the pancake situation (where everyone piles on top of each other like a stack of lovely IHOP Pancakes and their sweat flows and mingles into a syrup that doesn't smell like maple or blueberries), I take a deep breath and step back from the train, allowing others to go before me, and I wait for the next train. But because I am now required to sign in everyday for work, I have to be on time and therefore, I had to be on THIS train.

We shuffled onto the train, with everyone turning and shifting, trying to fit their piece of the body puzzle into this small space more comfortably. At first I was all positive and thinking something along the lines of "Hey, this isn't so bad." Then I felt a punch in my right armpit. I turned to look at who it was that thought my armpit would be a good place to put their hand in this humidity and found myself pancaked next to a reasonable looking woman. I mean, she didn't look deranged or annoyed or particularly brain damaged. However, her behavior belied some kind of underlying issue. She was determined that she was going to read her stupid morning Metro paper, even if she had to punch me in the armpit to see which celebrity is now a plastic surgery suspect. I just stared at her, trying to psychically break the language barrier and communicate the aggravation and discomfort she was causing. But she would not be persuaded. Maybe my telepathic powers are muted underground, similar to the bad reception my cell phone receives in the elevator of my building. Anyway, she refused to make eye contact and continued to apply pressure to my right armpit and the chub that hangs out in that neighborhood.

I took a few deep breaths. They didn't help. But they did kind of expand my chest so that her hand was shoved a few centimeters deeper into my armpit and there was pancake syrup in there folks. So I felt somehow vindicated by leaving my distinctly American "mark" on this small, rude, inconsiderate newspaperreader.
And because my telepathic powers just weren't up to snuff this particular morning, the lady standing behind me, who had reached across and over a person in order to hang onto a handle she could barely reach, decided that she would press her butt into the back of my thighs. Why? Why, why, why, why, why? Why do you need to mush your butt against me WHEN YOU ARE HANGING ONTO A HANDLE? Oh, maybe she just misunderstood my telepathic pleas. She misinterpreted my silent siren of "GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME" as "Please, anything you can do to make me sweat more, make me more uncomfortable, or hotter, please do it. And do it like it's your birthday."

And mornings like these are why I reserve my right to complain. And because I make you feel better about your life, right? So, it's kind of a win/win situation. I get to vent about my struggle to acclimate to this full-body-contact culture, while you get to sit in your office that you most likely drove to and feel so blessed and thankful for your own commuting bliss.

I got off the train without inflicting any bodily harm on anyone. I wonder how many more days I can get my Rage to keep using its inside voice.

All Day Rage

Yep, you read that right. ALL. DAY.
Do you know why, dear readers? No, why Danielle, and where the heck have you been??
Oh, thanks for asking. Well, I was sick and then I was lazy, and then I hiked in the mountains to a waterfall, and then I was lazy some more. Anyway, so rage. My absence here sadly does not signify the absence of my daily rage. (Although, my Seoul Metro-specific rage was reduced incredibly as I read Leslie Marmon Silko's novel Ceremony. I almost missed my transfers and stops the week I read it. It was amazing. I was oblivious to the uninhibited squishing and toe-stomping and elbow-boobing taking place during my morning commute. I'm now copying the book by hand in order to know what it feels like to write the perfect sentence, string a bunch of those together into a perfect paragraph, culminating in the most wonderful and moving novel I've read to date. And people, I've read a lot of good novels.)

No, no, rage is here and rampant. Yeah, you said that before, Chubster, get to the point.
Yes, the point: Air conditioner.
Oh, we have them. However, we're not supposed to be using them. I'm sorry, what? Why? What is the point of an air conditioner that you can't use? Hello? "But it's not good for the kids." That's the largest load of crap I've ever heard in a Korean accent before. I'm sure the kids are sweatin' out the summer months in their penthouse apartments in Gangnam with no air con. Sure. I believe that. And: THE A.C. IN THE OFFICE DOESN'T REALLY WORK. It comes on. The vents open and it makes this comforting whirring that assures you cool air will soon be circulating in our tiny square foot of office space. But no. Lies. All deception and deceit. The cool air never makes an appearance. The humidity rises and rises until I have those greasy strands of hair falling across my forehead that are so oily from my sweat it makes me want to vomit every time I catch one out of the corner of my eye. Also, then I smell like deodorant. Which is better than smelling like B.O. but it's still not pleasant. Especially when you're inhabiting a country where the women refuse to perspire and when the do squirt a few beads, it smells like... nothing. Yeah, medical phenomenon. They. Don't. Smell. Well, sometimes the old people smell like kimchi, but that's more their breath and clothing than their armpits. Anyway, I'm hot. All day.

Keun Ha calls me a baby sometimes. And I'm never offended because he doesn't mean it like I'm immature or can't take a joke. He means it like I'm one of the most simple people walking on this earth. When I'm hungry, I'm grumpy. Feed me, I'm happy. End of story. When I'm hot, I'm grumpy. Air condition me, I'm happy. End of story.

Oh, and the kids. My poor kids. They are sweating like we're in a sauna. Want your kids to learn English while they sweat like boxers steaming in trash bags before the weigh-in? Send 'em on over to Haba. We'll roast 'em for no extra charge. And in fact, we'll throw in a heavily perspiring teacher with large round pit stains and oily hair to get them to understand the difference between pot and pots. ("The s is magic, see! It makes MORE!" Blank stares abound.) We'll get them to stand up and sing that stupid rainbow song (pink is NOT in the rainbow people) to keep their rather large and round heads from hitting the small desks in front of them. We'll say "Yes you may," every time a child summons enough energy to creep out of the dense fog that rises from melting kindergartners to whisper, "CanIhavesomewater, please?" Got a chubbo on your hands, parents? One of those weird medical miracles of a Korean whose body fat registers above 1%? Forget Richard Simmons and those Jazzercise For Toddlers videos! Send them to Haba! Sweating profusely throughout the day is sure to banish that childish pudge forever. (We'll stop before they lose the cheeks though. Until I came to Korea, I never understood people pinching cheeks. Oh. My. Gosh. I am a Korean-kid-cheek-pincher.)

Okay, end facetious ranting. To sum up, a lovely list for your reading enjoyment:

Recent Rage Inducers:
Lack of air con at school ALL DAY.
Oily piece of hair touching my face.
Being hot. Walking by manager's office to see his little personal desk fan keeping him cool.
My penchant for Ice White Mocha, the most calorific drink in the joint.
Not having enough stuff to teach with and fumbling for materials constantly.
When 5 people get in the elevator with me and they all live below floor 9.
Everyone on the Metro the same time as me this afternoon.

Recent Rage Reducers:
The teacher who hunts the A.C. remote and turns it on high for me.
Really tacky hair clips from Kenny's mom that are gold and sparkle, clash with my jogging pants, and keep oily pieces of hair out of my face for most of the day.
Ice White Mocha.
Food.
Food.
Food.
Boyfriend.
Food.
Air conditioning.

Ajumma Rage Resumes

Oh, the ajumma (large sigh and shaking of the head in a way that lets you know there is no hope left ). This morning I was at the end of a line of people. It had ended precisely at the point where there was no more room for anyone because there was a large vending machine backed by an enormous supporting square column. I had slipped in behind the average Korean woman commuter: short skirt, long hair, body like a Victoria Secret model minus the boobage. (Yep. That’s right folks. Go ahead and insert it into your vocabulary and somebody call Webster. Boobage (n) /boob’- ij/: a word of db origin formed by joining boobs and baggage, both of which can be weighty and a pain to haul around.) So, I’m standing there thinking about the more serious issues in our world, i.e. does my hair look really greasy from the back today, how that guy got a shirt that says Wal-Mart, and how much longer I can wear these shoes before they need to be replaced. And Rainbow Brite Ajumma comes slipping through the lines on my left. I see her coming. You can’t miss the lady. She is sporting a bright punch-you-in-the-face green jacket and the mandatory foot-long visor. If I were in a room with my eyes closed, this jacket would wake me up. Seriously.

So Rainbow Brite Ajumma comes closer and I assume she shall wheedle or whack her way through my line. I squeeze as flat against the vending machine behind me as the chubb-o belly will allow in order to let her pass because I don’t like people touching me before 9 a.m. I thought she would just move on through. Negative.

She just stays there.

Yep. She just plants herself on top of the girl in front of me. I can see Victoria Secret Minus Boobage’s hair blowing in the breath of R.B. Ajumma. Yeah, she’s that close. And then she kind of leans her shoulder into Sans Boobage’s back to look around her at who knows what. So Sans Boobage kind of arches her back and gives a halfway glance behind her with a look of annoyance on her face. R.B. Ajumma does not notice or does not care. She does not take a step back. I wonder how long it will be before Sans Boobage turns around and gives Rainbow Brite a good verbal scathing in Korean, but all of a sudden, this ajumma steps out of the line, wheedles through two more lines to the right of us and stands next to the first person in that line, bypassing the 10-15 other waiting commuters.

Rage! Absolute rage! It’s so fortunate for R.B. Ajumma that no one in this country is allowed to own a handgun. (Most fatalities are stabbings, which cannot be done en masse. Perhaps America should consider this. Just a thought.) The thing that most infuriates me is not that this woman has no respect for personal boundaries. I understand that every culture usually has different values, especially when it comes to personal space. I’m able to accept that. But the fact that in any country, any person thinks they have the right to step in front of a line of waiting people in order to beat them all to the first seat, is simply enraging. To quote Jim Carrey as the Grinch: “The audacity! The unmitigated gall!” I cannot fathom thinking in this way.

Or perhaps it’s not a mindset, a thought. Perhaps it is a lack of thought, the absence of public consideration for others. This country harbors so many contradictions within its customs. Koreans are some of the most kind, generous, and giving people I’ve ever met. Individually. It seems that the same rules that apply to any single person do not apply when one is in a large group, particularly underground. I’ve had several ajummas whack me with purses, shove me out of the way, and literally run over my feet to beat me to a seat on the train. But I’ve also had the singular experience of an ajumma giving me her seat an entire stop before she left the train. And one other time, an elderly woman patted the seat beside her with a smile, inviting me to sit down with her.

And because of these small incidents, because of these exceptions to the rule of inconsiderate behavior, I do not retaliate. I silently bear my rage and grit my teeth and take deep breaths. I do not push back. I do not cut in line. I do not always close my eyes while sitting down so that I don't have to feel guilty about not relinquishing my seat to the nearest elderly woman or man standing on the train. Because if I resort to mimicry, if I give in to my heart’s burning desire to push Rainbow Brite Ajumma out of the way, to step back in front of her, it’s like a seal of approval. I am signing off on this behavior as acceptable. And although this behavior is rampant, there are a great many people not partaking in the serve-yourself subway mentality. And for them, I rage here, instead of on the platform waiting for the train.

You’re welcome, Korea. You’re welcome.

An Open Letter

Dear Idiot Woman on the 8:30 train from Cheonho to Jamsil,

Really?

I want you to know that this morning was the first time I’ve ever had the disgrace of being caught in the closing doors of the train. And I also want you to know that I hold you entirely responsible. Your behavior this morning was selfish and inexcusable. I had waited in that long line on the platform the same as you. As a rule, I do not push and I do not squeeze my way onto a full car. It’s a principle I stick to without fail. However, this morning Moron Man Behind Me wanted desperately to be on this particular train. I was going with the flow, minding my own business and moving towards the doors in a timely manner, making sure not to leave an inch in between you and me in case any ajumma got the idea of whacking herself into that space with a ridiculously oversized handbag. But when you walked into the train and did an about-face and stood firmly in that prized spot “by the door where the nice little personal handle is conveniently located,” you made it impossible for me to get on the train. I was okay with this. You wanna be that way, fine. But Moron Man had his forearm pressed firmly across my back and was pushing me into you. But you just stood there, refusing to give way, although there was space behind you. I was being forced through the doorway when the doors began to slam shut. Have you ever felt the crush of automatic sliding doors? You would think the rubber tubing would provide some kind of cushion, but it doesn’t. Nope. One door punched my left arm while the other sexually assaulted my right shoulder and frisked my purse. They both jumped back open after running into the obstruction of myself. I fell into you and you just held onto the nifty little handle you believe was put there just for you. No eye contact, of course. Poor Moron got the brunt of both doors as he muscled his way in directly on my tail. They finally shut and I inched my way around your offensive and unforgiving body to stand in the space behind you.

Again, I ask. Really? Because this kind of behavior is childish. Even if you’re only going one stop, it’s not good etiquette to go through a doorway and then stand in it. Not on the subway, not anywhere. I don’t care that you wore your favorite pink dress suit. It was ugly and the skirt was a stupid length anyway. I also don’t care that you decided your dumb hair needed to be fluffed and that you came dangerously close to poking my right eye out with your selfish little fingers. I’ll do you a kindness and go ahead and tell you the truth: that perm was a mistake and the raucous fluffing didn’t help. However, I do care that the steadfastness with which you held your position this morning screams repeat offender. Is this a habit? It is disrespectful to the people around you. And it defies all common sense. Please, please exercise some common courtesy and remember your brain tomorrow morning. And give Moron Man my regards, because you’re obviously in some kind of Most Obnoxious Commuters League.

May the grace of God find you and teach you how to respect others, how to be generous in shared space, and good grief how to fix your hair.

Enraged,
db



Oh dear readers, did I say that I was tired of rage? Because I am. But just because you are weary of an emotion doesn’t mean it still won’t course its way through your body, leaving you exhausted and wishing that everyone would go away and you could get to work by yourself somehow, without seeing a single person.

Will to live another day in the city on a scale of 1 to 10: Negative. Below zero.
Wish to move to the countryside ASAP: Overwhelming

Rage with Accompanying Soundtrack

Normally I listen to music on my morning commute. I’ll go ahead and confess that I’m not a fan of the Shuffle function on my iPod. I often get stuck with a bunch of songs that I don’t listen to, strange interludes, preludes, and spoken word found on musical soundtracks. Or all the instrumental music I own decides to pile on the Shuffle queue and bore me to death on the way to work. But I’ve been thinking about the Shuffle for a while, due to my fabulous luck of finding this guy’s blog. Read it; it’s good. Anyhow, Shuffle has been on my mind, so I decided last week to test it out. Monday: eh. Tuesday: eh. Wednesday: Really? Thursday: Why am I torturing myself with this? And then, Friday happened, people.

So, Friday morning I’m suppressing my rage because there is always a reason to be full of it on the Seoul Metro. And I’m finding it easy to not think about how angry I am because I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It’s like my iPod has finally become my best friend. All week, Shuffle has been disappointing me. But for some reason, I swear my iPod has finally figured me out and is using its Shuffle feature to woo me. You’re not going to believe this list. But here it is anyway.

Say It To Me Now- Glen Hansard (Once)
Drive In, Drive Out- Dave Matthews Band (Crash)
Come Together- Aerosmith (Aerosmith’s Greatest Hits)
Things We Said Today- The Beatles (Hard Day’s Night)
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds- The Beatles (Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band)
Stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again- Bob Dylan (Blonde on Blonde)
Brainwashed- George Harrison (Brainwashed)
If You Belonged to Me- Traveling Wilburys (The Traveling Wilburys, Vol. I)
Memories- Elvis Presley (2nd to None)
Black Star- Radiohead (The Bends)
Not Yet Dark- Bob Dylan (The Essential Bob Dylan)

No lie.

So, as I pushed the lock button on the top of my beautiful black square of music, the song Say It To Me Now began playing. This is from the soundtrack to the movie Once, which won an Oscar this year for Best Achievement in Music Written for Motion Pictures and it won Best Original Song for the first track on the album, Falling Slowly. Once is a superb film in my intelligent and infallible cinematic opinion, and if you haven’t seen it, you should see it. Say It To Me Now’s 2:37 got me down the elevator and all the way to the escalator going down into the pit of hell, also known as the subway.

DMB was a nice treat. Dave always takes me back to being 17 and my first real concert. I saw them the summer of 2000 with Gaelen, a boyfriend who shaped my musical taste my junior and senior years of high school. Dang, he deserves a lot of credit for my intelligent and infallible musical opinions… And then I was surprised. I couldn’t be mad at the lady who whacked me with her purse trying to get off the train for all the wonder and surprise of Aerosmith’s cover of Come Together, which I didn’t even know I owned. What the crap? I know, right? Danielle didn’t know she owned a Beatles cover? Ah, well, I didn’t. I snatched the Greatest Hits album off my friend, Evan, in 2006 before I left for the U.K. All morality issues aside, I didn’t realize this song was on there and I couldn’t place it, so had to look at the iPod to check and see who it was. Hey, it’s always a good day when you find you have Beatles covers you didn’t know you had. So, I was gracious and didn’t yank that woman’s fat purse out of her hands and beat her with it. I just rubbed my arm where she whacked me and thought about how empty her life was without the Beatles and the bands that decide to play their stuff.

Which was weird, because then the Shuffle threw the Beatles right on into the mix. What are the odds? (I know there is probably some way to actually calculate these odds taking into account the total number of songs on my iPod and the ridiculous number of Beatles songs I have. But that would involve math. And Danielle Math is never correct and can sometimes be harmful to your health.) Things We Said Today is from the film and album A Hard Day’s Night. The film is awesome. See it now. This song was followed directly by another Beatles song- Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. First, my mouth dropped open a bit and then I began to laugh with disbelief, which made all the Koreans who weren’t already staring at me do so. My friend Tariq had just recently told me that he thought Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds was entirely overrated. I listened with his statements in mind, but couldn’t get over the fact that the God of all Things Musical was living and breathing through my iPod, orchestrating the perfect morning playlist. So, the song may be overrated, but it was lost on me as I was so awed and thrilled that I had now heard 3 Beatles songs (albeit one a cover) in a row and the choice was anything but mine.

Stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues again got me through the transfer at Jamsil from Line 8 to Line 2. My favorite line is “Your debutante just knows what you need, but I know what you want.” Dylan helped me throw off the annoyance of an older man stepping on the back of my foot and causing my shoe to fall off. A shoe falling off is no big deal except that I was in the middle of a mass of people moving in one direction and when you stop, you shall be trampled. I felt a bit like Mufasa in The Lion King with the wildebeests. Or, I felt like I was stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues again. Both are apt. Then I wondered as I waited on the next train if it was possible that everyone in this country had been brainwashed in their underground behavior. And Georgey boy helped me out with his solo work, Brainwashed.

So far: soundtrack, Beatles cover (for a soundtrack, actually- Sgt. Pepper’s…), actual Beatles double-time, Dylan, George Harrison AND THEN THE TRAVELING WILBURYS, which included Dylan and Harrison (along with Tom Petty, Jeff Lynne, and Roy Oribison). I know. It’s unbelievable. The rest of my journey was filled with Elvis and Radiohead, who aren’t related, but I realize the Shuffle is only capable of so much. It is, after all, a machine. The Radiohead song was from my favorite album so far, including their latest In Rainbows, which is great but just can’t top The Bends for me. Another Dylan song brought me full circle in the music world and escorted me off the elevator to work. I took my shoes off, put them on the shelf, walked straight to my desk and wrote down this playlist. Even as I write this, I’m still amazed. Aren’t you?

To sum up: I heart Shuffle. Who knew?

This Train is Full

I don’t usually eat breakfast before I leave the house because my school provides breakfast for me. It’s always soup. Pumpkin soup, juk (kind of a rice oatmeal), chicken and rice soup, always some kind of soup with kimchi. Now, I love kimchi. Danielle is all about some kimchi, just not first thing in the morning. I think that should be something I gradually work up to- for my stomach’s sake and for the fact that the entire faculty and staff uses one toilet.

So, Monday morning on the way to work, I’m not feeling full of energy (or anything else). For me, hungry = grumpy. Morning rage is lying dormant within me, waiting to be aroused.

Rage Inciter #1: An older man in a ridiculous yellow jacket decides that he does not have to get in line like the rest of commuting humanity. He will simply stand beside the line and enter the train at his own will. This makes me angry. If the line is long, then the line is long, people! Deal with it. It’s called life (or being late, if you’re me). So, Yellow Jacket decides because he is losing his hair at rapid rates that he should not be subjected to “the line.” So he stands beside me. He can’t stand behind me because there people are IN LINE! My rage is awake.

Rage Inciter #2: I find myself stuck in Metro Purgatory as we board the train. You haven’t been hearing a lot about good ol’ M.P. for a while because I’ve been avoiding it like the plague. But I’m pushed for time this particular morning and I AM GETTING ON THIS TRAIN, Metro Purgatory or not. So, I’m squeezed into this small space in front of the doors and guess whom I get to be back to back with? Yep, it’s Yellow Jacket. I had the pleasure of standing directly on the heels of a shorter man in a suit with earphones in, who in turn had the pleasure of being able to see the side of my face hovering over his shoulder out of the corner of his eye. If Suit turns his head, we’ll be making out. This is made even more probable by the fact that not only does Yellow Jacket think he can bypass the line, but he is also exercising his inalienable right to support himself by allowing his whole weight to rest somewhere around my shoulder blades. My rage is flexing its muscles.

Rage Inciter #3: I am hot. And my legs are shaking because I am basically trying to hold myself upright by pushing my toes so hard into the floor that it will cave in and give me a bit of a foothold. But it doesn’t. So I have to resort to this hoppy-jumpy move every time the train jerks in order not to throw myself on top of poor Suit. I do a little hop in order to bend my knees in hopes of regaining my balance, in hopes of gaining a millisecond of rest for my legs, and in hopes of shifting all my weight backward off of poor uncomfortable Suit and onto Yellow Jacket, who cannot hold himself up without my help. My rage is hoppy-jumpy.

Rage Inciter #4: PEOPLE KEEP GETTING ON THIS TRAIN, AND MORE SPECIFICALLY, IN THIS CAR. These are the times I dream of learning enough Korean in order to make a large neon sign I can throw up in front of the doors as we pull into the station. This sign would say, “There is no more room in this car. This car is full. There is no more room in this car. This car is full. Thank you for not squishing the already squished commuters on this train.” So I keep doing the hoppy-jumpy thing, dreaming of my beautiful sign that would prove ineffective anyway. The guy to my right is actually becoming a bit amused by my odd tactic of remaining on my feet and trying not to vertically spoon the Suit. He is stuck so that he can only turn his head to the left. So, I’m pretty much the only thing he’s got to look at. Well, at least some one is having a good time. My rage is healthy and energetic, coursing through me with gusto.

The Suit exits at Samseong and I’m sure he is off to write on his blog about the enraging, crazy white girl who kept trying to hump him on the train. My legs are trembling now. I have scooted to the left and grabbed a handle, leaving Yellow Jacket to support his own damn weight. My muscles are quivering- with hunger, with exertion, and of course, with rage.

I get off at my stop. I stumble up the steps out onto the street. I get to school and the Universe decides to give me the biggest rage antidote EVER. My kids are angels all freaking day. And on top of being good listeners, they are smart this day! And they make me look good in front of the principal who pops in on 2 of my classes. This in turn leads to the owner of the school, who is visiting this month, to tell me she has heard good things about me and she is so glad I came to teach at her school. I just sit back and watch this incredibly good day pass by me.

End rage. Until tomorrow.

Stampede

Thursday morning I arrived at Jamsil station just as the train doors were about to close. I knew that I probably couldn’t make this train, so I began walking down the platform towards the front where I imagine it is less crowded on the next train that will come flying down the line for me. But the doors still haven’t closed and I am walking past a set when I see a big huge space. It calls out to me, “Danielle! Look, there’s room for you! No squeezing or pushing required.” And I lightheartedly jump into the train and say, “Thanks, space.”

The first three stops went rather well— no one mistook me for a wall to lean against or the girl who couldn’t dream of anything more grand than to be pressed against them for the duration of her journey. It was kind of tough when people wanted to get off the train, but I rotated sideways and sucked in the belly to let them past and it seemed to work. But between Sports Center and Samseong, the train began to slow down and came to a dead stop in the tunnel. I could see my reflection in the glass of the doors. It appeared as though I had been born with not one, but two sets of ridiculously bushy and unkempt eyebrows. There was an announcement over the loudspeaker that was gibberish to me. Thoughts of being trapped in the tunnels and all the horror stories I had heard about masses of people dying in the subway darted through my mind. I felt my spine tingle and my muscles twitch. But all the Koreans behind me seemed unalarmed from their reflections in the door. So I remained calm and dismissed all ideas of imminent danger. We waited a few minutes. There was another announcement I couldn’t understand. (Dang, I’ve got to learn Korean, and how!) At this point everyone got out their cell phones and began to text furiously. So, following suit, I sent my colleague a message that said I could possibly be late because I was sitting still in a tunnel with at least four more stops to go.

Little did I know that while I was in the tunnel waiting and growing ever more impatient, the platform at Samseong was rapidly filling up with people also waiting and growing ever more impatient. At 6 of the stops on my second train, the doors open on the right. At Samseong the doors open on the left. I was thankful for this because it meant I wouldn’t have to move in order to let others on. My nice space that had seemed so inviting was closing in around me. Finally the train starts up again and we jet towards the station. I am standing in my space, minding my own business, thinking how lucky I am to have hopped on this particular train, even if it was delayed a bit. And WHAM! I am making out with the door. All those impatient people on the platform have vowed that they are getting on this particular train no matter what. And they have shoved, elbowed, and shouldered their way through those doors and into this car, causing the people behind me to push me flat against the doors. The man behind me has his arm over my shoulder and pressed against the side of my face so that he can reach the door in order to hold himself up. A woman’s shoulder is making very good friends with my ribs. Someone is standing on half of my left foot and I can’t turn my head because I am busy cleaning the door with the sweat and oil from my face.

At the next stop, all the people who shoved into the car from the left side at Samseong wish to get out on the right side. So as the doors open, I am thrust out of the train onto the platform as the car spills its guts. The crowd propels me to one side and on top of a Korean girl waiting to get on the train. She pushes me off her, saying something I cannot understand, but she communicates her indignation despite the language barrier. I am driven back onto the train by the mass behind me and jostled so much that I say, “Oh my God!” and everyone in the train turns and stares at me. I have broken Metro Golden Rule #1: You must not speak unless absolutely necessary, and certainly not into thin air, your comments directed at no one in particular. For two more stops I look at my feet and seethe.

I have no recourse. I cannot change an entire nation’s thinking on Metro etiquette. At the same time, I cannot bring myself to fall into line and follow this unspoken Underground Code. I can make a habit of taking my shoes off before I enter buildings; I can learn to enjoy kimchi and wield chopsticks; I can try to sit on the floor at restaurants, ignoring the fact that my right hip always hurts and ends up causing my foot to tingle and then go numb; I can remember to always find the eldest person in the house and bow and say hello to them first; I can even begin to learn the language and have hopes of mastering it somewhat someday. But I cannot assimilate in the case of Seoul Metro behavior. In this way, I will always be a foreigner, no matter how hard I close my eyes and wish I was Korean.

The Big Bad Purses

If I charted my Wednesday on a graph, it would start in the negative quadrant, well below 'Just okay.' This morning I was less than okay for two reasons: a). I didn't succeed in berating myself out of bed until 8:20 a.m, which is usually the time I leave my apartment and b). it was raining. When I peeked behind the window shade and looked down, I was greeted by the dreadful and gloomy tops of umbrellas shooting down the sidewalks toward the subway entrances. Ugh. I could already see the ever-dreaded and miserable wet pants scenario. I would roll my pants up, but the whole walking thing would convince them to unroll and play in the puddles that gather on the uneven sidewalks. And I could already feel the disgusting moment when I removed my shoes at work and the wet pants would touch my ankles. I hate that. So I sighed and grumbled fiercely at my reflection in the mirror as I tried to figure out the best way to fix my hair so that I looked less like an unwashed miscreant and more like a respectable English teacher.

A few minutes later, I headed out the door and the line of my day continued on the x axis, steadily running towards "grey and boring." As I boarded my first train, I was lucky enough to be standing in the aisle between the seats. This space is much better than metro purgatory (See 'The Grab Plan' below) because although I can't hold onto anything, the commuters on either side of me can. This usually eliminates any unnecessary touching, pushing, or leaning. But nooooooo. The young, seemingly healthy woman behind me HOLDING ONTO THE HANDLE decided she couldn't find enough support and needed to lean on me. I kept inching forward and wiggling around to let her know I was definitely not okay with this situation. But she continued to rock back on her heels, her fingers firmly wrapped around the black handle, and press her back against mine. This was the kind of press that made sweat start to form in my many crevices and I felt a drop bead and run down my side. It was hot enough in the train. I was already disgusting, but she was making it worse. And so my rating on the rage-o-meter soared (all sorts of bells and whistles were going off) and the line of my day plummeted towards 'worst yet.' Luckily, I only have 3 stops on my first train and so I was able to transfer at Jamsil. It's a long walk from platform to platform so I had a bit of time and a bit of Ryan Adams on the trusty iPod to assuage the rage. (I know it rhymes. Deal with it.)

Deep breaths. (From walking fast and climbing stairs, mostly). Okay. Waiting for the second train, I stood in line and convinced myself not to look at the clock or my cell phone because knowing what time it was wouldn't make me any earlier or later. And it definitely wouldn't help me to be calm and rage-less for the next 7 stops on this train. And all of a sudden I am whacked. I am whacked with a big bulky purse the size of my midsection belonging to a sturdy, apparently powerful Korean woman probably no younger than 50. I turned around in disbelief, forgetting that I was in Korea and vulnerable to the attack of the old-lady purses, raised my hands and my shoulders in a “What the hell?” kind of gesture. But my disdain was too late. She was off whacking her way through the middle of the lines of other patient commuters waiting for the train. (Forthcoming post on The Ajumma - I will check the English transliteration of the Korean- a stereotype based entirely in fact.) Anyway, my day-line plummeted towards dejected.

I went to school. My kids channeled demons all day.

I stepped out of the elevator at the end of my work day and the rain was gone and the sidewalks were already dry. The sun greeted me and pulled the line of my day up the Y axis to “maybe I won’t die today” status. I got on my first train and stood in front of a school girl in her green jacket and plaid skirt uniform. She got up at the first stop and I moved to take her seat. But right as I was turning around to sit down I saw a large purse out of the corner of my eye. Having still not fully recovered from the indignity of the morning’s purse incident, I immediately stepped back and motioned for the old (anything but frail) woman to have the seat. She took it. And then a miracle happened. The woman sitting beside her smiled at me. She had shoulder-length hair and only the lines around her eyes whispered she might be over 45. She rose from her seat and motioned for me to sit down. I thanked her in Korean and slightly bowed to her before sitting. I thought what luck it was that she was going to get off at this stop. But she didn’t. No, ladies and gentlemen, she didn’t get off the train. She just saw that the line of my day was still in a negative quadrant and wished to boost me up that good old Y axis with a kind gesture. She smiled at me from her spot in front of me, holding onto the handle. I rode that train in a seat for the next 6 stops. And I’d like to say my official endpoint on the chart was in the positive, hovering somewhere between “restored faith in humanity” and “forgiving all ajumma’s with large purses.”

I guess sometimes what you put out into the universe, Mel, comes right back at you.

The Grab Plan

Between 8:00 a.m. and 9:00 a.m, every person in Seoul is trying to get to work. And they are all trying to get on the same train. I get this. After 3 weeks of riding to and from work every weekday, I understand the process. I am well aware each morning as I make my way towards Exit 2 (which also conveniently serves as an entrance) of Cheonho Station that I will be pressed between any number of people in any number of formations.

So, although it's a common occurrence, the way people choose to behave in situations like this still inspire anger to burn deep in my guts. Today was no different. I boarded the second train from Jamsil to Gyo Deh and was in a tight spot in front of the doors. This space between the seats where the doors are is a kind of metro purgatory. You cannot hold onto anything and everyone is going to stumble forward or backward with you. Your subway fate is uncertain at this point. Unless you are squeezed in so tight that it doesn't matter how much the train jerks around. Unless you are stuffed safely in the middle of at least 35 people in a space designed to hold perhaps 12. So today, I am in the purgatory area. It is not too terribly crowded so I'm not actually making physical contact with anyone, yet. So I make my Grab Plan.

The Grab Plan is a selection process by which you choose the prime candidate whom you will improperly grab and possibly grope when you begin to fall over. Preferably this is a person just outside the purgatory area who is holding onto a handle or leaning against a bar, or in a seat in front of you. The ultimate Grab Plan is not too old, very stylish, and male of course. Today, my Grab Plan was situated in front of me and to the left, wearing a navy blue Seoul Institute of Art hoodie . A bag hung on his left arm and the smell coming from it reminded me of Funyuns. Perhaps it was his lunch. He was reading a newspaper and I could see his hands. His profile was tucked behind his hood that must have been insufferably hot to wear. His shoulders were wide and his torso obviously tapered (in a sweatshirt- I know!). He had on dark jeans and white shoes. He was my Grab Plan. If I started to fall and could not recover, I would put my hands on this young man to right myself. I decided that my left hand would be placed against the back of his left arm, while my right hand would aim for somewhere around his right shoulder. Yep, that was my plan.

And I almost had to use it. Do you know why? Can you imagine why I almost had to use the Grab Plan? Hmm.... Danielle, was it because the train was exceptionally rough this morning? Nope. Was it because you were wearing high heels and couldn't keep your balance very well? Never. Well, why then? Hey, thanks for asking! I was almost forced to grab an attractive young Korean man most inappropriately on the metro this morning because the man behind me in his stupid pinstripe business suit was mistaken. Horribly mistaken. See, he thought that I had flown all 13 hours and got a new job doing something I'm not very good at and drastically changed my diet FOR HIM. He believed that my sole purpose in Korea was to support him on his morning commute. This man was back to back with me and he simply leaned on me as if I were a post or a wall. In the beginning, I simply inched forward thinking he would get the idea. Negative. He simply leaned further in order to regain his balance AGAINST me. And my hair kept getting stuck between us so that every time I wanted to look down or do anything except stare straight ahead, I had to jerk my hair free. But this was lost on him.

Okay, second tactic was lean back, but harder. I'm bigger than most Korean men anyway (which constantly shames my boyfriend. I mean, he's got muscles and all that, but he's no match when I just lay into him. If I use all my weight, I always win.) So I start pushing back and.... nothing. No response. He simply adjusts his feet so that I don't push him over. He's RIGHT BY THE FREAKING BAR! Just hold onto the bar! I scream at him in my head over and over.

3rd plan- make my shoulder blades stick out as far as possible so that leaning on me is uncomfortable. Oh, he shifts! Oh, maybe... Nope. He's just repositioning. Finally enough people exit the train for me to move around completely behind my Grab Plan guy. After the man who thought I had applied for the position as stalwart object to be leaned against left the train, I no longer needed my Grab Plan guy.

But I stayed behind him anyway. I felt close to him. He didn't know it, but he theoretically could have saved me from the embarrassment of being fatwhitegirlwhofelldownthismorningonthetrain. People already stare at me. I don't need anything to increase the attention I'm receiving. And so I felt I must remain loyal to this man. So I stood there for all the rest of the stops and when I left the train before him, a small tinge of sadness crept up toward the top of my head. It reminded me of long trips to Georgia when I just happened to follow a certain car all the way down 75 and that car exited the highway before me. I didn't know the person in the car; I had simply become comfortable with our arrangement, our situation. Thank you Grab Plan Man. Thank you for being there. And I would like to metaphorically hock a loogie (sp?) on the Leaning Guy.