Oh, My Blog Title is So Succinct and Relevant

Hello dear readers, whose comments enrich my life and make my heart swoon! (A bit over the top, I know, but it's been so long since we've, well, talked. Or should I say, it's been so long since I talked and you listened.) Anyhow, it's been over a week all the same. I missed you.

I had a break from school last week, my only vacation besides the week I get sometime in winter. So I took a break from writing as well, just to let everything kind of marinate inside my head for a while. I thought I came to some conclusions about my raging, my complaining, my lack of compassion for the Stealth Ajumma, etc. I had been thinking for a while of retiring the old Rage in the A.M. header up there and going with something more universal, a little more open, to give me room to rant about more than my morning commute and the inexplicable tics I find in Korean society. 

I was moved to rethink my rage when I met a man who works at an established and successful publishing company at which my boyfriend is employed. This man is the caretaker for the building that houses said publishing company and was there on a Saturday when I accompanied Kenny there in order to do some weekend slave labor. It turns out this man lives at this building in a small basement room with no window, one bed, and a table. This man has no holidays. And when I say no, I mean not one. He doesn't get Christmas, New Year's, Chusok (Korean Thanksgiving), no bank holidays. He sleeps there and eats there. He has a house, which he never gets to use except for a few hours on Fridays when he goes home to shower, clean up, and change his clothes. He has an ailing wife who oftentimes must be hospitalized. But he isn't able to see her because... well, he has this job. He is well into his 70s and hasn't had a raise in 6 years. This company grossed millions in profits last year. It's not as if it's a failing company and it can't afford to pay it's workers. Anyhow, listening to this man's story was heartbreaking, mostly because he told this story only in response to questions asked. He did not ask for pity or sympathy. He was simply relaying the facts. With a smile.

When Kenny mentioned speaking to his boss about this situation, the man begged him not to do anything. He was afraid of losing his job, and at his age no one else would hire him. And really, he said, he was quite happy. It was a good job to have. He didn't want to quit because he needed the money, and he didn't want the company to hire another person to work shifts, because they would decrease his pay. Kenny's hands were tied. 

And my rage was checked. What right do I have to complain, to agonize, to whine about tiny things like my personal space or the people who don't treat me like the center of the universe when this man is living this life. How can I open my mouth so loudly (or type here so furiously), my guts broiling with indignation when there is a happy elderly man living in a room with no window? How dare I complain about the lack of air conditioning in my new office at school? How could I possibly not get over the small inconvenience of locking the door every time I leave and getting the key to unlock it every time I come back? Oh, hello perspective. Hello other people in the world. So those were my thoughts and I was all penitent and on my knees ready to give up my raging ways.

Until this morning. I was coming out of the subway and ready to put my little T-money electronic ticket on the pad to be scanned at the turnstile in order to exit. And I was headed toward one of many, I repeat, one of many available turnstiles.  When out of the corner of my eye, I catch a bright flash of neon nylon. I raise my hand to set my cute little square of technology on the pad when Neon Nylon Ajumma runs, and I do mean sprints, to get ahead of me and go through the turnstile before me. She shuffles through the turnstile as if she is being chased by a pack of rabid wolves (although this would never happen because ajummas are fierce Handbag Warriors and intimidate the crap right out of all wildlife). I have, in my bewilderment moved to the next available turnstile and gone through. I am not being chased by rabid wolves (are these worse than just regular non-rabid wolves? Is rabid too much? Should they just be wolves?), however, I have 5 minutes to get to work and I need to walk for almost exactly 5 minutes AND I must stop for breakfast at the Family Mart and say hi to Mart Man, who will most decidedly be disappointed that yet again, I am not wearing my "out hair," which we all know by now is "much better." So, I'd like to walk quite rapidly out of the station. 

But that is not possible, because Neon Nylon Ajumma, although in quite a hurry to get through the turnstile, is in no hurry now and is walking as if through a field of dead rabid wolves with nothing to fear. And I'm all, to put it in serious literary terms, AAAAARRRRRRRRRRGH. 

Did she just not see me? Or is it my problem? Do I really think I'm that important? 

In America, we have this sense of "our rights." These "rights" are often referred to when our own personal sense of what we believe we deserve has been infringed upon by others. It's not really my right to proceed before the ajumma through the turnstile, although in my country, custom dictates that the person who arrives first would logically go first. But here, I need to remember that I am not in my country. But dearest readers (whose comments make me do a happy jig around my apartment to silly songs I make up dedicated just to you), it is so very hard to remember where I am. Because although Korea doesn't look like America and it doesn't really feel like America, I still feel like me and I still get offended when someone smacks me with their handbag, or stands on my feet, or pushes me out of their way. It's like this persona-space-vulnerability is in my blood. Because no matter how many times I remind myself that Koreans don't consciously realize they are pushing, shoving, and standing on top of another, it still enrages me when they do. 

So, although my perspective has been tempered by the life of the Man with No Holidays, Ever, I still find myself angry at these small things. Perhaps it will take a while for me to water down my rage. It's a gut reaction, not an intellectual or mental response. Dang, those gut reactions die hard. 

Oh, and I am engaged. Just thought you should know.

What the Crap Wednesday

So, I'm not one for discipline, as you can tell from the random posting here, despite all my sincere intentions to post 8 days a week. And I'm not promising a new weekly "themed" post. Unless I feel like it. End preamble. Which was one of the answers on Jeopardy today in the category Crossword "P".

I also knew the questions/answers, "What is Carbon-14?" and "Who is Matthew Perry?" Why I knew that Carbon-14 was used to date fossils surprised me, for I am stringently opposed to all things math and chemistry related. Anyway... what the crap?

I started my day rolling out of bed at 8:20, the time I'm usually getting dressed and about to head out the door. I'm seriously sleep-deprived, and for some reason I just couldn't muster any sense of actually caring about my job in order to propel me to my feet at a decent time. I'm not sleeping. What the crap?

One of my 6 year old kids came up to me today while I was sitting on the floor, looked down my shirt, double fisted my breasts, and then turned around to his classmates rubbing his own chest vigorously and shouting something in Korean. What the crap?

Jun, one of my 6 year olds passed me in the hallway, tilted his head to the side, gave me a very cool look and said, "What's out, Danielle Teacher?" It took me a minute to realize that he was trying to say, "What's up?" I've been trying to teach my kids the whole "What's up/ Nothin' much" dialogue. Not so much for educational purposes as for my own personal entertainment. I also taught them the "Back it up/ back it up/ You got it/ You got it" bridge from the Gwen Stefani song Crash off her Love, Angel, Music, Baby album, using it whenever I want them to scoot back or move in that direction. Just for kicks. "What out, Danielle Teacher?" Awwwwwwww.... I mean...What the crap?

While we're on the topic of the short people, there is a boy in the 4 year old class who is now calling me Thank You Teacher. Usually at the end of every class, the Korean teachers make all the kids say, "Thank you Teacher!" And I'm not ever this kid's teacher because I keep my distance from the wee ones, but I do co-teach a special after-school class that he's in. So, instead of calling me Danielle Teacher, he calls me Thank You Teacher. "Thank You Teacher, look!" No matter how many times I tell him my name is Danielle, not Thank You, he insists on calling me that. What the crap? (Even though it's kind of cute. I'm becoming more and more immune to the cute. Call me insensitive if you want to. I call myself a teacher of small monsters. It happens.)

In other educational news, half the air-conditioners aren't working again. Specifically the one in the teacher's office, where I spend most of my day. Despite the fact that it's hot outside and I've already soaked the armpits of my shirt with pancake syrup (see previous post in order to insert inside joke type of snort here) by the time I've reached school, there is no hope for them to dry or for me to cool off when I am forced to spend half my time in The Oven. (Meghan, I'm making a sign tomorrow if it's not fixed and putting it on the door. It will read, Welcome to The Oven. Burn, Baby, Burn.) Also, this whole sweating all day thing totally makes my wearing-that-shirt-about-three-more-times-this-week-before-I-wash-it practice obsolete. Thus, costing me more time and money doing laundry. And I smell like deodorant all day. What the crap, Seoul Summer? What the crap?

Not a Wednesday incident, but still WTCW worthy. I was sitting next to Cuddle Ajumma the other day. Her friend was obviously lacking in her seat-stealing skills because she was standing in front of Cuddle Ajumma. It was almost my stop, so I thought I'd get up a little early and keep someone else from being attacked by this Less-Than-Expert Ajumma. I began to stand up, and before I had stood up all the way, Cuddle Ajumma scoots over INTO my seat, UP UNDERNEATH ME. I was basically sitting in her lap. Everybody say it with me now.... WHAT. THE. CRAP.

Anyone else out there having a What the Crap Wednesday?

The Stealth Ajumma

This weekend, Keun Ha and I headed out to Insadong ( 인사동) to reinstate the Saturday tradition of Isul Cha (Dew/Hydrangea Tea). As usual, the train was pretty crowded on a Saturday. I wasn't trapped in Subway Purgatory, but I wasn't going to get a seat, either. And I'll tell you why: The Ajummas. Now, I noticed on Saturday that although the Ajumma seems to be set in her ways, she can adapt to almost any situation at hand. Because she knows there are some instances when handbag attacks just will not suffice. She understands that in some cases, subtlety will serve her well. So, on the Saturday afternoon train, I discovered a whole new element of the typical ajumma stereotyped character: Stealth Ajumma.

Yeah, that's right. Stealth Ajumma. She moves with a quickness and she's so fast, you often don't even notice that the seat in front of you has been vacated and refilled in an instant. They slip slyly in and out of the great lines of commuters hanging onto handles like monkeys hanging onto tree limbs. They weave between friends, colleagues, and lovers, their eyes open and entirely aware. They can sense when a person is going to leave a seat before they start to shift their bodyweight and gather their belongings. Stealth Ajumma is not joking. She will have a seat. And that is usually why I don't have one. Oh, I saw the guy I was standing in front of get up, but then I blinked before trying to sit down and when I looked again, Stealth Ajumma had already set up shop. Sometimes they swoop in from the back, slipping into the seat as you turn around, preparing your backside for the awesome contact with the cool metal chair, so that you almost sit on them. Luckily, their handbags usually alert you before you place all your Chubb-O weight on a petite Korean Ajumma, thereby preventing what would surely be unintentional homicide-by-squishing. Even the coarse, wizened ajumma has a softer side.

I've often wondered why I see so few reactions to the Ajumma takeover. The young girls who were planning on sitting in that seat never give a nasty look or say a hateful word. The women who have been standing in line and get the handbag smack don't often roll their eyes. It seems the men are oblivious to the Ajumma. Of course, every time I'm standing in a line [ex: yesterday at the ticket counter in the subway station. I'm like 10th in line. But I'm not moving because as each person is helped, another ajumma bypasses the line and steps straight up to the counter], I find myself fighting the urge to punch all these "cutters" in the throat to show them who's boss. But really, I think there is so much acceptance because all these young girls and women know it will someday be their turn. If they wait long enough, survive long enough, and take enough crap from their elders, it will one day be their turn to dish it out. And they will bypass the lines and they will throw their handbags into seats younger people are attempting to occupy. It's kind of a cycle of life thing. Or heck, just a wait your turn, your time will come thing.

And that's why it's so hard for me to swallow. It's so hard for me to adjust. IT WILL NEVER BE MY TURN. At least not in Korea. I will never look Korean and I will never be able to get away with that behavior. And even if I were allowed to get away with it, I don't know that I could justify it to myself. Ajummas are Ajummas out of necessity. I was discussing this with Keun Ha last night and he said something that resonated with me: "We make fun of ajummas and we think they are a bit ridiculous sometimes, but we never go too far because they are our mothers." So, not only does every young Korean know that someday it will be their turn, but they probably have an ajumma at home that has sacrificed her life for them and her family. They have given so much, cared for others so well, that perhaps when they are on the train or in a store, they just need to take care of themselves.

But, DANG. Watch out for those Stealth Ajummas. They are samurai swift, man. Samurai swift. (Is that a mixed metaphor? Using a Japanese warrior to describe a Korean old lady? Hmmm... I'll let you sort it out.)

Korean Hospitals, Part II: Rules that Should Be Rules

In contrast to the rules listed in the last post, which are in effect, my stay in the hospital resulted in a new list of guidelines that I firmly believe should be instituted, particularly on Hall 8B, as soon as humanly possible. We’ll call these the DB rules, well, because they’re brilliant and I don’t mind lending my initials to brilliance. (This also helps anyone just joining us from confusing the actual rules with the rules that should be actual rules but aren’t.)

DB Rule #1: You must sleep in your bed the right way round. This means your head should line up with the heads of the people beside you and your feet should all face toward the center of the room. The Stinker next to me slept the wrong way around all day every day and often positioned herself on her left side, with her back facing me. This strategically aimed her butt in the direction of my face. This woman was Champion when it came to meeting the Passing Gas Standards. And so, every so often, my air supply would become polluted with The Stinker’s generous wind. I had no recourse. Why? Why aim your guns at me? What did I ever do to you? And she wasn’t even that sick. She could walk, and burp, and fart, and eat really loudly, and even got her drip removed the second day I was there! What? You’re not on a drip? Surely you’re well enough to go home. So, stop pointing that thing at me, turn around the right way, and be more environmentally conscious to your fellow patients.

DB Rule #2: Put All Almost-Deaf People in Their Own Room. Outside of the orchestra of snoring and farting that played all night, there was the Screaming Ajumma. She was General Disturber of the Peace. She was one of the caretakers common to Korea that are hired by the family to live in the hospital with their loved one while they are sick. These women are strong and coarse, and should be so in order to do their job. They sleep on cots next to the hospital beds, change diapers, hoist ancient, limp bodies into wheelchairs, and force a lot of food into ailing senior citizens. But the yelling? Oh, God. I have uber-sensitive hearing that makes sleep hard for me on a regular basis. My fridge makes noise, something shifted in the trash, a door 20 rooms down opened and closed. That kind of thing. This woman was like 10 feet from me and if I had been blind, would have sworn she spoke through a bullhorn. And the Screaming had no time limits. 2 a.m. and you just drifted off? Too bad. Screaming Ajumma needs to fluff a pillow or make Deaf Old Lady swallow a pill or turn over. Put ‘em all in the same room and let ‘em scream themselves hoarse. Sleep is essential to recovery and healing. Sleep is impossible with Screaming Ajumma. You do the math. And write your Congressman.

DB Rule #3: Sort patients according to the severity of their condition. Put happy, healing patients altogether. Put grumpy, pain-ridden patients together. The way it is now, the Happy are way too Happy because they compare their slight issue to those of the really ill and think how great it is to be them and this makes them even happier and more annoying. And those of us seriously experiencing pain are not allowed to wallow and writhe in peace, but must feel doubly sorry for ourselves because across the room is a woman who could, for all practical purposes, go shoe shopping and eat donuts. The jealousy factor prolongs pain, in my expert medical opinion, and also induces Rage, which increases pain and decreases already negative pain thresholds. True misery. Put the Happies on a ward so they can laugh and tell jokes together. Put the Weenies Who Can’t Handle It together so they can stop burning with jealousy and focus on getting well.

DB Rule #4: NO PLASTIC BAGS. AT ALL. EVER. Every person who came to visit, every Screaming Ajumma, and even Kenny’s mom carried everything in a freaking plastic bag. The sound of rustling plastic bags is already annoying on a normal not-a-patient-in-a-hospital day. But being confined to a bed, already feeling like you’re going to puke, and listening to the crackle and crinkling of plastic for 5 MINUTES STRAIGHT (oh, it feels much longer than that) is unbearable and makes me crazy. And why is it that you can’t ever just stick your hand in and pull out what you want? You must rearrange everything inside the bag, take it all out, do elaborate origami figures with the bag, try to iron the wrinkles out of the bag, rub the bag between your hands as if you were going to start a fire with it, put all your items back in the bag, shake the bag, tie the bag, forget you need something else and repeat the entire process. Plastic bags in every day life are not so noticeable. Plastic bags at 4:30 a.m., although muffled somewhat by the “orchestra,” are like bombs detonating in your pocket. Please, on behalf of all hospital patients around the world, leave the plastic bag at home. Or, put all the plastic bag carriers in a different room. I’ll take the Green Room, which shuns all plastic bags and only uses handmade hemp carriers to transport our goods.

Can you tell that I’m all about sorting things according to like properties? I believe that in some cases, this is called prejudice. But in this instance, I firmly believe that it is common sense and for the good of the masses that must reside in Korean hospitals for any amount of time.

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.

Less Blind Rage, More Open-eyed Reflection

Did you miss me, mom? (I say this because my mom is the only person whom I know for sure reads this thing, and she’s the only one who’s asked me where I’ve been. Yes, I’m hurt. Yes, you should post your profuse apologies in the comments section.) I’m still here in Seoul. There’s still rage in the morning. Don’t worry your head about that one. It’s a given.

However, I’ve grown a bit tired of rage. And channeling such intense emotion on such a frequent basis is proving to be quite exhausting. So, I’d like to make a sharp right into digression. Limiting myself to unpleasant commuter experiences is not very representative of my life here. I want to talk about so many things, tell you how much I’m learning, explain why parts of my background and family are becoming precious, lecture you on the parts of Eastern society that we should open our minds to, and amuse you with my anecdotes of being an American girl in Seoul. So, rage is on the backburner: contemplation is piping hot and ready to serve.

Welcome to Contemplation #1

As of last Friday (May 2), I’ve been here for 2 entire months and I’ve collected quite a few experiences as a foreigner that I’m still processing. My identity is not at all settled here. It’s kind of like being back in high school and trying to locate my genuine self, only on a much less boy-driven and drama-ridden level.

I find myself wearing a particular facial expression when I’m in public. It consists of making my eyes as bored and empty as possible so that I won’t seem excited by my surroundings. It involves my eyebrows being pulled down just a bit so that I might appear “to know something about something.” My mouth is closed, my lips locked in a straight line that tries to say. “Hey, I’ve done this before. This is nothing new.” I don’t know what this expression actually communicates, but it’s purpose is to shout to every Korean staring at me, “I AM NOT A TOURIST. I live here, thankyouverymuch.” This desire itself is a mystery to me. Why is it so important to me that random strangers know I’m not just passing through? And is this directly related to my aversion to all Westerners who appear in the street, on the train, or across the coffee shop? I’ve never had such an overwhelming desire to stand apart from people “like me” and to blend in with people who are “different.”

So many times, I find myself on the train wishing away my double eyelids, my language, and my western penchant for cheese. I just want to melt into this culture, to be a part of it as much as possible. But the largest part of this culture, I am finding out, is based on appearances. And therefore, no matter how fluent I become in Korean, no matter how good I become at using chopsticks or eating kimchi, no matter who I marry, I will always be outside, set apart. Damn this adorable nose and my big eyes.

I am a breathing, walking, coffee-gulping dichotomy. I guess I am trying to reconcile my western habits and preconceptions with the eastern society I’m trying to become a part of. I find myself reveling in the parts of myself that are truly American and western. I often celebrate my sincerity and genuine expression of emotion over this oppressive Korean emphasis on formality and social posturing. But at the same time, I admire the communal eating and bathing (with your own gender) within Korean society, mourning how isolated we westerners have become. I rejoice in the American idea of putting in a good day’s work, but see how this pales in comparison to the work ethic of Koreans. They are a tireless people who work long after their hours on the clock are over because that's just the way it is. Their grandfathers and fathers loved their country and wanted to make it strong and prosperous after the war that destroyed so much for them. This mentality is left over from the previous generation and it makes me realize how quickly the youth in America abandon the principles of their fathers.

There are some things I cannot learn to see differently: the pushing and shoving that are socially acceptable without a word to the pushed or shoved. Even after Kenny explained to me that there cannot be “Sorry” in Korea because the word for sorry in Korean is 3 syllables at it’s shortest, and must be adjusted in each case according to the pushed or shoved person’s age and status. There’s simply no time to make these decision correctly. It’s less offensive to push someone and move on rather than to say you are sorry without using the correctly respectful ending. I understand this. My solution: import “Sorry” into the Korean vocabulary just as they have imported many other words, like hand-phone (cell phone), TV, mp3, banana, etc. Or better yet: STOP PUSHING.

There are some things I want desperately to show my country how to change: the way we treat our elderly is one of them. Here, the elderly are treated with the utmost respect. The eldest son or eldest daughter (if there are no sons) of the family cares for them when they grow old. They are not shoved into the nearest nursing home and visited only on national holidays. Every time I enter Kenny’s home, it is important that I find the oldest person in the house and say hello. In this case, it’s his grandmother. Every Saturday morning, Kenny bathes his grandmother because she is paralyzed on one side and cannot wash herself. It’s a task done with love and without shame or embarrassment.

There are many aspects of Korean society I chuckle at: For example, the men carry purses here. Yep. Real purses, like Louis Vuitton and Coach bags. They’re not just doing the manly across the shoulder, but the full-out on the shoulder under the arm. Sometimes I think men in America need to get over their masculinity issues and not be afraid to carry a bag. I mean, men need stuff too, right? So it makes total sense and I appreciate the freedom these Koreans feel to accessorize. The ajummas are always wearing huge visors that stick out incredibly far so that no sunlight dares to touch their skin! If they’ve forgotten their visor, but the sun is out on the street, they will guard their precious faces with a newspaper, an umbrella, even their big bags they use to whack innocent bystanders in the subway with.

So, I’m doubling in on myself. I’m finding new ways to live and function in an Eastern society that has different goals and priorities. And while I’m doing that, I’m trying to hold onto my Western born-and-raised self and the good things, the important things that are a part of my history. I am having to open my mind and accept that things are not always as I wish them to be, nor would it be positive or perfect if they were as I had imagined. I feel that although I’m not a tourist (and for some inexplicable reason deem it somehow embarrassing to be labeled as one) I am a traveler. And when you’re traveling, it’s important to look around with your eyes open and your heart ready for new, surprising, or difficult things. The traveler doesn’t just long to “see,” but wants more than anything to “experience.”

I am definitely experiencing.