it begins...

Around Thursday I had two phone messages in my mailbox, the first from my recruiter: my visa was ready and waiting for me at the Korean embassy. 'Oh, and I hope it's okay... I booked you a flight for Saturday...' the second phone message was from the travel agent: my ticket was ready and waiting for me to pick it up.

This meant that I could stop sleeping on couches, and that I would have two days to visit my friends one last time, and get everything done that generally needed doing. Those 'things' were based on guesswork, and internet hearsay. Messageboard polls generally indicated vague guidelines of what I would need to bring with me, in order to live and teach. For example, somebody with numbers for a name suggested bringing Western pillows and blankets because Korean pillows were 'weird.' Another suggested bringing plenty of Jell-O because it was unheard of here. I was generally finding the information insufficient, but going through the motions of informing myself was soothing.

I did invest in a digital camera. I had done some photography as a teenager, but then gradually found the cost of film too expensive. Plus I started to resent how having a camera changes your behaviour: I could be watching something beautiful, and see a dozen people around me compulsively snapping pictures, never experiencing the reality of it but through viewfinders. Coming home with a bunch of useless facsimiles, useful for nothing more than boring relatives or emergency kindling. I decided that if I couldn't remember the thing on my own, it wasn't worth carrying around a bunch of pictures of it.

I'm trying to reach a happy compromise. For my last two days in Toronto I became one of 'those people' that insists on taking pictures of their friends at parties and bars... Oh, how I hate those people! But I decided I was going to bring a chunk of Toronto with me across the ocean. Besides, the evening before my flight was a 'drag party', and the pictures are priceless.

Four-thirty in the morning and I'm still a little drunk, saying goodbye to my cat, and my parents drive up to take me to the airport. (Trust me, it was their idea... I wouldn't dare impose on somebody like that).

Korean air hostesses have a strange uniform... they wear scarves that stick straight out, so that one end of the scarf is sticking out in front of their left shoulder, and the other just under their left earlobe. Their cheer was paranormal. For these reasons, they struck terror into my heart. It was a thirteen hour flight, and while the smiles never cracked, strains of humanity shone forth, and I respected them deeply. Especially when one was pouring red wine, and the plane banked deeply. She set her jaw and managed not to pour the wine onto her powder-blue uniform.

I hate customs. About 5 hours into the flight the hostesses brought around declaration forms. I had a leatherman in my suitcase, and I convinced myself that such a thing could lead to me being called into a windowless room with non-English speaking cops, upset that I brought a deadly weapon into the country and neglected to declare it before getting onto the plane. As it turned out, the customs official didn't speak English, actually didn't speak at all, just stamped my papers and waved me on.

It was positively balmy in Korea. In Canada, there had been snow on the same day I got my phone message. Suddenly all my layers of clothing were superfluous. And I was weighed down by my luggage, staggering around like a maniac. I called my new boss and made arrangements to take an airport shuttle bus to Suji. I was informed that there were three different ways to reach Suji. I chose one based on guesswork, and staggered over a businessman to claim one of the last seats on the bus. I realized in short order that all countries must alike, when travelling on expressways at night. Right about now I was feeling pretty confident: no major incidents, problems, confusions, embarassments, etc. Except now I realized that there were four different Suji stops, and I didn't know what Han (my boss) looked like. The businessman beside me tried to help me as best he could. I guess I looked confused. Thanks, Mr. Businessman. Sorry about bumping you with my pounds of carry-on luggage. I got off the bus at the stop he suggested. And I was standing around looking lost no longer than seven seconds before I was approached by another Korean, who called Han and explained where we were very quickly. Turns out he was wearing a 'Team Canada' sweatshirt and had studied English in New Brunswick. I don't know if it was because I was tired or still culturally acclimated that I only noticed the sweater much later, and realized how rare it would be here.

To be continued...