Fowl Breath

When I came down with a bit of a cold about a month ago, I didn’t think anything of it. After all, the change of seasons combined with a period of higher stress at work could quite easily lead to some minor sickness. I got better and, although I still have a nagging cough, I attributed it to the winter-time chill and promptly forgot about it. Then, this morning, I read:

South Korea on Tuesday confirmed a second outbreak of the H5N1 strain of avian influenza, after saying on Saturday it had its first outbreak for three years of the strain that is potentially deadly to humans.

The agriculture ministry said the second bird-flu outbreak killed about 200 chickens at a farm 3 km from where the first case had been found in North Cholla province, southwest of Seoul. http://edition.cnn.com/2006/HEALTH/conditions/11/28/skorea.birdflu.reut/index.html

At first, I was in shock. Now, I’m terrified. What will I do? Maybe the paycheck isn’t worth it after all–how can anyone afford to pay the opportunity cost of nuclear vaporization compounded with the deadly risks of force-fed-chicken breath? Is this what an education for liberty has brought me to?

Consider the death toll since 2003. If the disease keeps spreading at the current rate, in three years the total number of deaths will rival the number of people who drown in bathtubs every year: a 1 in 40,000,000 chance where each breath–each cough–could be my last.

Appreciate me while I’m here, world.

Youthful Impressions

“Nothing is more characteristically juvenile than contempt for juvenility. The eight-year-old despises the six-year-old and rejoices to be getting such a big boy.”

—C.S. Lewis, An Experiment in Criticism

Perhaps the best thing about learning Korean is the instant ability to impress locals. And when I say instant, I do mean instant. One solid noun is really all you need; a properly parsed verb will have the world at your feet.

Take, for example, an’nyung’hi’gae’sei’yo. Our typical goodnight phrase at work (be in peace, you who are staying) it still draws smiles despite several weeks of unvaried and rather mechanical usage.

One night at a local pizza establishment I was able to consider this phenomenon from a new perspective. It was with a mixture of scorn and circumspection that I watched an unknown Western teacher trot out his best Korean for several middle school girls.

Watch this. I am ‘miguk.’

Never mind that that translates (somewhat pretentiously, I might add) as: I am America. From the eruption of applause you’d think he’d just said, “I am Justin Timberlake.” The show wasn’t over either.

Watch this. I can count to three. [Pause To Think] ‘Hana,’ [Pause] ‘dul,’

Around this point, I realized that the instant impressing is less exciting when you aren’t doing it. In the hands of someone else it feels cheap and easy. A little fed up with the whole situation, I decided to do the only sensible thing. Before America could get to ‘set’ (three) I told Charles-Michael…

Watch this.

Turning to the girls, I opened with my zinger:

These days, how have you been spending them?

Shock and awe followed. Pointing at the food I uttered the Korean words for:

Pizza, tasty.

Enthusiastic agreement on that one. I proceeded with pertinent questions:

Are you students? Do you eat at a school cafeteria? Is your playground area spacious?

Things continued likewise for another minute or so, by which point I had completely exhausted my usable vocabulary. After a photo opportunity with the girls, and noticing our compatriot now waiting for his pizza outside, Charles-Michael stated the obvious.

Well, that was pretty successful.

Oh yes, it was.

Update: Return of the Newsletters

Year 4 (I) (II) is now available thanks to Lewis Butler, the only person to hold a 10K GLIAC title and President’s Club membership concurrently.

Creative Differences

When Steve and I were talking about creating a blog, the title was an issue of some contention. He already had Across the Sea with some readership, but I wanted something a little zippier, and preferably with a pun in the title. Hence, I proposed Choruses from the R.O.K.

As you already know, I lost. He insisted that it was too obscure and too long, I countered that it was amusing and apropos. In the end, we decided on a compromise: Across the Sea would remain the title and address, Choruses from the R.O.K. would be the tagline, where it could amuse those who noticed its apropos obscurity.

If you look just below the title, you might notice…nothing. It isn’t there. If we ever choose a different look that has a tagline, or become computer literate enough to insert one, you’ll be able to see it. Until then, you should know that it exists, in mind if not in deed.

A reasonable person might then ask, “Choruses from the R.O.K., hmm? So, where is the wisdom that was lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge that was lost in information?”

According to my information, it’s not here. But you might find a laugh or two.

At the Family Mart

Three round plastic tables sit on a sidewalk, surrounded by blue and white plastic chairs. To the right, several large bags of trash and plastic crates holding recycling.

This is Family Mart, convenience-store-turned-hangout for Western teachers and various local groupies.

Three men are at the middle table, looking out. The man on the right is bald, slightly overweight, with short-cropped hair and a trimmed goatee. He wears a blue shirt with vertical stripes and speaks with a Bosnian accent.

VLADO
Vere is everybody? I said 10 o’clock, didn’t I?

JOHN
Wendy said she worked until 9:45, so she might be a little late.

VLADO:
She’ll get left, man. It’s Alex’s birthday, we have to be there, you know? [Pauses] Did I ever tell you a story about a man who, from time to time, saw pink elephants?

General shaking of heads, some laughter.

VLADO
Alright, so…

Enter Lucy, a Brit, and Jane, a Scot, stage right.

Ah, Lucy, Jane. It isn’t every day you see two beautiful women walking down the street like that, eh?

JANE
How are you, Vlado?

VLADO
I am doing alright, it is Friday night, you know? Vun veek behind, and a veekend ahead to forget about it. Ve are good, man, f—ing vaiting for Vitney.

JOHN
Wait, you stopped your story about the man who saw pink elephants.

CHARLES-MICHAEL
From time to time…

VLADO
Yes, well, that is the story. What else is there to tell? He saw pink elephants!

JOHN
Oh, come on!

LUCY
You should tell another one, a real one.

VLADO
Yes, but Charlie is such a f—ing Quvaker, he doesn’t like my stories. [Pauses to think] Alright, alright. So, I am in the Yugoslavian Army, in 1991.

JOHN
I thought you were Canadian?

VLADO
My name is Vlado! And how do you think I got this accent, man? I am Yugoslavian, but now there is no Yugoslavia, it is Bosnia and it is a s—hole, so, I am Canadian. Anyways, I am in the Yugoslavian Army, and we are under siege. I was at the military academy, the best school in the whole country, and we are under attack, so now I am in the military.

I am in the first year, so I don’t have a gun; you don’t get a gun until second year. We stand around this wall, no guns. They tell us, “If you see someone jump over the wall, you say ‘Stop!’ If they do not stop, you say louder, ‘Stop or I will shoot!’ If they still do not stop, you shout, ‘Stop! I am shooting!’ If that does not stop them, go across the square to the sergeant’s room, he will go upstairs to the commander, and he will investigate the problem. When you have told the sergeant, go back outside to observe the intruder’s movements.

JANE
You must be kidding!

VLADO
No, man, it’s a true story. We had one sergeant, one hundred men and one sergeant, and he says to us, “I have a gun, I will protect you.” He was serious, you know, it was like Rambo or something,”I will protect you.” So, we are in our bunks, and the sergeant comes around to give out duty for the night. He comes to me and says, “Milosevic” (that is my last name, you know), “Milosevic, on duty.”

I froze, man, you know? I didn’t start crying or anything, I just froze; I couldn’t move. I mean, give me a break, for f—’s sake, I was fifteen, you know? It was like this moment where you are a boy and then you are a man.

On duty.

He didn’t say anything, I didn’t say anything, he just stared at me for a moment, frozen, and then he says, “Skipped.” No one was skipped, it was the army, you know, but he just looked at my face and said, “Skipped.” It was crazy, man. Crazy.

A moment of thoughtful silence. Enter Wendy stage right.

VLADO:
Ah, Vendy, Vendy! Vere have you been all my life? Hurry up and grab a beer for f—k’s sake, it’s time to go to Alex’s birthday party, so we will get cabs, ok? Four to a cab, it will be cheap. [Standing up] Alright, let’s go.

Return of the Newsletters

As much as we’d like to think this site will make random people on the Internet interested in our lives, the more likely scenario is this: Only our best friends will read it, first from a sense of obligation, then guilt, then finally stopping altogether.

Thus in an effort of self-promotion, we present all current and former Chargers with a gift: the Newsletter Archives, accounts of Hillsdale College distance runners’ summer training in Colorado. Here they are, in all their inside-joke-driven and poorly proofread glory.

Year 1: Pueblo, Year 2: Boulder I, II, III, Unreleased, Year 3: Estes Park

(Perhaps MN can get us an electronic copy of Year 4)

 UPDATE: Year 4: (I) (II) 

Teachers Say The Darn’dest Things

As a teacher, you’re always looking for small, seemingly trivial ways to connect with your students outside of the actual lesson material. I feel this extracurricular bond is important in all classes, and especially so when your text is both incredibly boring and down right incomprehensible. (Yes, Ms. Lucile, I’m talking about Reading 2.2.)

So perhaps some would scold a student who walked in with headphones on, but not I.

I like your MP3 player.

It’s not an MP3 player.

Oh, I think, it must be designed for newer formats, mp4, wma, aac—stuff like that. The thing does look high tech. We’re not talking (the new) Ipod Shuffle-size here, but it is pretty small. There’s a cuteness factor too. White, a little boxy, with no visible USB ports outside—sort of like my dad’s old Volvo.

Seeing my continued interest, the girl lets me take a listen. Now, with the headphones on, I realize it’s not so much music coming from the device, but rather amplified sound. That’s when it hits me.

This is a hearing aid.

I quickly apologized, and even blushed a little too. The nice part is that none of that was necessary. The little girl was completely oblivious to my blunder, merely happy to have the teacher taking some interest in her.

My friend is a music teacher in Colorado Springs. He teaches some mentally and physically handicapped students, one of whom is in a wheel chair. Upon hearing about my MP3 misspeak, he quickly thought up an equivalent compliment of his own.

Hey, Timmy. Nice wheels.

One Crazy Korean Night: A Saga in 4 Parts (IV)

Here’s the thing. Being new in country, it’s tough to distinguish between a regular Broken English Dude and an actual Crazy Korean Dude.

That’s no knock on South Korea. The fact that we got into his tent to begin with is a testament to the people here. Given the same invitation in the States, there’s no way we would take that offer. Nor should you.

Our school director probably summed it up best:

In Korea many good people. Some bad.

I had an inkling this was one of the bad ones when the CKD began patting the top of my head. I figured I’d give him the benefit of the doubt—sleeping walking, perhaps—and shrugged it off. After he took a pass at CM, then tried to force me out of the tent saying, No three, no three! Only two, only two! it was pretty clear where things stood. That pile of pigs feet in my shoe was less about hospitality, and more about wining-and-dining.

Jersey came over afterwards, having heard the commotion from our exit. He felt pretty bad. After all, he had talked us into the whole arrangement. He tried to encourage us, though, with these words…

Look, Korea’s not like that. I’ve (edit)-ed three (edit)-s this month and I’m no super-star. The guy’s probably not even gay, I mean not for real. He’s just the crazy uncle that everyone hopes will get married, but he can’t, so it’s like he’s in prison. There are all these (edit)-ies around, but he can’t get ‘em, so it’s like he’s in prison, in prison looking for any piece of…umm… Look, you guys can sleep in my tent. No, seriously, it’s no big deal. Really. Besides, you don’t want to be out here anymore, do you?

The last point, at least, was a good one. It turns out that while we were with the CKD, Jersey had encountered a similar situation. The group of campers he was with suddenly split off when one dude decided to break out his keyboard. You could still hear the music; it sounded strange. Apparently the keyboardist had been giving off some weird vibes as well.

As the three of us crawled into an even smaller tent, Jersey had more wisdom for us…

Remember, life isn’t about George W’s conservative, Middle-East agenda. It’s about the sun, the moon, and the stars. I know it sounds stupid now, but the sooner you realize that the better.

And don’t steal my stuff, or I’ll kill you.

With that, we settled down for the third time in one evening, as the crazy keyboard kept playing, long, long into the night.