Baby, You Can Drive My Car… (Prologue)

It is a common story for an expat to flutter from his nest and, under the rigors and influences of foreign climes and situations, to undergo a radical shift, a sort of personal modernization (or postmodernization, if you will), that leaves him wondering at what moment exactly-a recent moment certainly, but inconspicuously unremarkable-he actually entered the current century.

It all starts innocently enough-first one makes a blog but stops short of updating it, thereby precluding his potential assimilation. Then, one acquires an iPod for those long rides on public transportation, and finds that his life seems, well, more real when it moves to a soundtrack (viz Wilde on life imitating art). After this, he purchases a cell phone, starts using that banal horror, the text message, and begins to watch American TV programs (it is nice, he tells himself, to hear English spoken so…so…less poorly). All of this turns and turns in a widening gyre until suddenly, unexpectedly, and almost without lifting a finger, he finds himself on Korean reality TV.

It could happen to anyone.

It all started on a rainy Thursday afternoon, Bhudda’s birthday, as it happens, with a phone call from a friend who was going into Seoul “for some TV show interview that needs Westerners.” I didn’t have any other plans and decided I’d come along for the ride.

We rode public transportation up into Seoul and walked through the downpour to an unobtrusive office on the fifth floor of an anonymous building, met the interviewers, spoke a little Korean, found out it was some sort of travel/food show, and answered questions about what foods we liked and what places we had been. They said they would call us, and sent us on our way.

The next day while getting ready for school, I got a call from one of the others who was at the meeting and who spoke the best Korean: we got the spots, he said.

“Oh yeah,” he added, “they want to start shooting on Sunday.”

Unfortunately, as I found out late that night, they also wanted to shoot all day on Monday, which would make teaching difficult. They agreed to get us back in time for class, but I still had visa issues unresolved: my visa allowed work at one place and payment by one person. Normally I’m not one to quibble about such matters, but being on TV makes it a bit difficult to hide.

Saturday I went into work to talk to my boss. She was nonplussed, said it was probably impossible, that she wanted to talk to the director of the show. I shrugged off the feeling that it was like asking my mother if I could sleep over at a friend’s house and gave her the director’s number.

Several hours later she called back.

“It’s really big show, ” she gasped, breathless. “Very famous here in Korea-you can be big star.”

She went on to tell me that I had to learn a Korean pop song, wear a shirt with no writing, carry a backpack, and several other crucial details that the director had neglected to tell me-among them, the plot. Apparently, we were backpackers traveling around Korea and stopping along the way for homestays and good food. It sounded too good to be true-a big show on TV, free travel, good food-what else could you ask for?

Because of the 7:00 am meeting time, Peter, the other American, and I decided to spend the night at a hotel in Seoul rather than dare the early-morning snarls of public transportation. Unfortunately, between one thing and another, we didn’t get to Seoul until midnight-bear in mind that I heard the details of the show at 9:00 pm from my director-and then didn’t find a place to sleep until nearly 2:00. Moreover, the only place both close and cheap was a jjimjilbang, a 24-hour sauna with sleeping rooms. In between the log-sawing snore of a fellow sonambulant, the heat and the light, we woke up to our alarms after four hours of something that resembled sleep.

Following a convenience-store breakfast, we went to the studio, met the producer, driver and camera-man and loaded everything into the van. Inside was a Korean girl whom we had not yet met.

“She is….pretty,” the producer told us as we greeted each other (she was). “She is….talent (i.e. broadcaster). For show, she is….Korean teacher.”

What, you might ask, qualified her for being a TV show host and Korean teacher other than being pretty?

Being very pretty.

“My name is Kim Joo-hee,” she told us in the deliberate tones of an ESL speaker. “I am Miss Korea.”