One week later, we were on Korean TV-twenty unadulterated minutes of Peter speaking Korean and being amusing, and me bumbling about like an utter ass.

Two weeks later, after appearing on TV for the second straight weekend, we went out into Seoul to gauge the effects of our new-found stardom. It was a pleasant enough night, but I, for one, noticed an acute lack of swooning.

Three weeks later, I got a call from Miss Korea, telling me that we would no longer be on the show-hardly a shock, to be sure, but regrettable nonetheless. I sighed as my visions of seeing myself on subway posters and the inevitable mobbing by Korean women faded into the distance. Sic transit gloria indeed.

If there is one thing more pitiful than a washed-up actor, it is a washed-up reality TV actor. Still, as one of my students told me with a wave that wiped away the importance of having been fired, “But teacher, the important thing is-your face was on TV!”

In hindsight, I guess the weekend wasn’t a total wash-I got paid, after all. Besides, I got Miss Korea’s number.

How do you like them apples?

As you might imagine, I was a bit astounded at this news, and in the confusion said something like, “Wow, you’re Miss Korea?”

“Well,” she replied, evidently thinking I was questioning her obvious beauty, “I look better in bikini” (sic).

Silence settled over the van as Peter and I considered this. I had never been invited to undress someone mentally. Moreover, this begged some important questions: was she coming on to us? And more importantly, which of us was she coming on to?

A few moments later, Peter asked the obvious question: “Errrrr…can you prove that?”

(In retrospect, I’m fairly certain that this was simply a reassurance of professional competence, in the same way that one would say, “I went to _____ Law School” or “I majored in _________.” Sadly, I don’t think that “I’m an English major” has quite the same potential as the original statement).

We drove north of Seoul for about an hour, pulled off onto some dirt roads and rumbled past greenhouses for about a mile before stopping in front of a house where we went over a few last-minute details. As it turned out, our shirts without writing on them were too dark, and the only shirt they had for me was at least one size too small. It squoze me around the shoulders and rubbed under my armpits, while the too-short sleeves jutted out at odd angles. This was just the beginning.

Perhaps you have, at some time or other, had one of those recurring dreams that involves you standing on a platform in various stages of undress with hundreds of cameras pointed at you, ready to preserve your words to the last syllable of recorded time. You look out at the faceless, expectant masses. The imp in your mind scribbles furiously. You open your mouth, and all that escapes is “ghaaaaaa…”

It was like that all day.

We began by singing a Korean song (badly) about a man who leaves his lover to serve in the army (roughly the equivalent of “Johnny Has Gone For A Soldier”), then greeting our “sansangnim” (teacher), Miss Korea, who entered driving a tractor (badly) while wearing high heels, designer clothes, and a broad-brimmed farmer’s hat.

Following some prep work from the director/cameraman, we introduced ourselves, looked excited, made the obvious statements and asked the obvious questions (namely, “You are beautiful!” and “Do you have a boyfriend?”). We jumped up in the air, said things like “Wow!” (a two syllable word in Korean, pronounced “Wa-oo”), “Pighting!” (the Korean version of “Fighting!,” used for anything from “Cool!” to “Keep it up!”), and shot love-stricken glances at Miss Korea before proceeding into a greenhouse. There, we began picking yawlmu, a Korean radish, and talked to the Korean adjumas (grandmas) about life, food and the field songs about yawlmu kimchi that went something like, “Yaaaawlmu kimchi, yaaaaawlmu kimchi / blah blah-blah blah blah).

Now, when I say that I “talked” with the adjumas, what I really mean is I would ask a simple question, nod as the speaker rattled off in heavily-accented, quick-fire Korean, and smile. I would try to “ad reeb” (ad lib), as the producer was continually exhorting us, but usually to no avail—I was struggling with basic communication. Occasionally, when everything was completely lost in translation, we would call out “Sansangnim!” and Miss Korea would appear in the greenhouse in high heels and radiant smile, carrying a whiteboard to write out explanations—in Korean. We rotated from job to job, mixing fertilizer into topsoil, spraying insecticides onto plants, and all the other things one apparently does on greenhouse farms in Korea. While we did each activity, the cameraman would ask us, “Chemeesawyo?” (Is it fun?), to which we would invariably respond, “Ne, chemeesawyo!” (Yes, it’s fun!) like smiling, moronic automatons.

Although our “fun” picking of radishes and spraying of lethal chemicals reached into the ridiculous, it crossed firmly into the absurd as we sifted pebbles from dirt with a large, splintery-edged sieve. The imported Punjab labor rolled their eyes, hooted and guffawed as we delivered our panegyrics on manual labor.

Meanwhile, when she didn’t absolutely have to be on-scene, Miss Korea slept in the van and, whenever we began to drive from one place to another, whined about how tired she was. If there had been a pea under her seat, I’m sure she would have found it.

Finally, we left the fields and drove to a house built on a pang-su-ji-ri (a place which backs on a mountain and has trees and running water in front of it, considered an ideal place for living). There, we took the radishes we had picked earlier and made yawlmu kimchi out of the yawlmu radishes, which we then devoured in disgusting quantities for the camera (“Ok, one more time—big spoon…ok—just one more time, big spoon…ok, one more time…).

During the course of making it, Peter and I staged a water fight and, in the aftermath, tried to think of a dancing-ish acapella song to sing for the camera, and failed (somehow neither “Hazy Shade of Winter nor “Tangled Up In Blue” seemed fitting).

After the shooting was over, we went to a restaurant with the entire cast and the man who owned the fields in which we had been working and shooting. After leading the group in shots of Soju (the national drink that tastes like isopropyl), the owner asked the producer something about whom of the cast would be staying at his house.

The producer gestured at us and replied, presumably something like “Those two.”

The owner exploded with a few phrases (probably, “I don’t want those smelly foreigners in my house!”), then pointed at the place where Miss Korea, now primping her makeup in the bathroom, had been sitting and spoke again (“I want summa’ that!”).

Everyone laughed, the director nervously.

The producer said something else (“Errrrr, haha, no”), and the owner replied again, this time with a phrase I certainly understood: ”Han-shi gan! Da-man han-shi gan!” (For one hour! Just for one hour!”).

Dirty old men appear to be a cross-cultural phenomenon.

Instead of staying with the owner, we were put up in—no joke—the Hotel California (whence, contrary to popular belief, you can both check out and leave). In a final mix-up that added a last dose of hilarity, Peter and I ended up sharing the room that Miss Korea was supposed to have, and Miss Korea got our room all to herself.

From the moment we walked into the room, we knew that something was wrong. The bed was round, about six feet in diameter, with a panel that controlled various spotlights and mood lights just to the side. The ceiling featured a circular mirror, and large mirrors placed on the opposite wall gave added visibility. In case all these accoutrements were lost on the inhabitants, there were condoms on the counter.

It was…macabre.

The next day we shot a little more before driving back to Seoul and getting into work too late to make the first class. When my director asked me why I was late, I gave her the response I’d been storing up all day: “Hey—I’m a big star.”

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.”

Here’s a little one for the Weezer fans…  

I had a new class today, so I gave out index cards for each kid to write down his Korean name, English name, any brothers or sisters, favorite food, etc.  About halfway through the stack I came across:     

my name is jonas.

Since I had my iPod handy, I introduced Jonas to the first track of the Blue Album.  Tomorrow, speakers for the whole class.  Next month, another blog entry…

Recently, a class of my upper elementary students greeted me with a collective groan.  Next’s month schedule was posted and, as often is the case in our month-to-month system, a new teacher was slated to take over.  Thinking quickly, I modified the day’s writing lesson and assigned them a task. A persuasive essay on why they should keep their teacher.

I’m still teaching the class.  Here’s my favorite reason why:   

There are many foreigner teachers. Also there are many class in Bluth School. Students have familiar teachers and unfamiliar teachers. In our class K8C, the familiar teacher is Steve teacher. We study with Steve teacher a long time. but in the immediate future a unfamilar teacher will be come in our class. Because Steve teacher is good, we should save him.

First, we should save Steve teacher because he teaches very well. When I have to bring out my english attainments Steve’s class help me a lot, but new teacher will teach us not very well as him.

Second, we should save Steve teacher because he is very kind, like our academy president. People is very horrible, but he is opposite side from these people.

Third, we should save Steve teacher because he teaches important points. If any teacher teaches useful points, we don’t know about why this class is existence.

So, in conclusion, because Steve teacher is good, we should save him.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.