Renaissance Woman

From the kitschy bunny rabbits that haunt every store window at Easter time to the ancient goddesses of fertility, spring has traditionally been a time representing both birth and rebirth. Well, this year, my heart and mind decided to join in the festivities.

It all started on Thursday, March 3^rd. Okay, that’s a lie. It started at some point earlier, but it was only on March 3^rd that it was all set into motion. I received, all on one day, a new kindergarten class, a new classroom, a new Korean partner, a new desk, and a new afternoon elementary program. The changes seemed unending. Now, I would like to say that I embraced all these alterations with serenity and cheerfulness... but, I didn’t.

It had taken six months to develop a routine that allowed me to have time for myself, and now, it seemingly just wasn’t possible. I had days when I was at work for twelve hours- planning, cutting, laminating, printing, correcting... all enjoyable work in and of itself, but no way to spend all my hypothetical free time. During this period, I developed a strange aversion to order-in pizza. See, Richard, one of the men who stayed to lock up, would order pizza for himself and anyone who was still at the office past eight. As delicious as it was, there were times when I’d purposely tell Richard I was leaving, just to feel as though I hadn’t stayed too late. Twenty minutes later, pizza fumes would waft through the office and he’d inform me he had ordered vegetarian pizza, just for me.

Dude, I was just going home to cook, I swear.

My most difficult trial has been working with my afternoon elementary students. I leave each class completely sapped of energy and in dire need of some positive vibrations... and the factors leading to my condition are manifold. Firstly, my students are coming to my class after a full day of Korean school. They have already done all the learning their little minds are capable of in a coherent fashion. Secondly, many of these students have never gone through English immersion kindergarten, which means their English skills are quite low. Thirdly, the curriculum they are currently following is in its pilot stages. In other words, no one knows if it’s any good yet. Fourthly, the program is quite rigid in its approach and butts serious heads with my theory that teaching is an art, not a recipe. Every day, I am reminded again of how incredibly irreconcilable the curriculum is with my students' actual aptitude. I wake up every day, hoping to have increased patience towards the situation...

Mercifully, as time has passed, I’ve slowly begun to see the blessings amidst all the chaos. My morning kindergarten class has proved to be an oasis in an otherwise arid education system. Besides having a very supportive Korean partner, I have discovered at least two bona fide hippies, three philanthropists, and a choir of reggae singers. We have considered everything from child soldiers to royal incest. We even had a discussion about how “human” is our animal name. Gasp! The kids dealt with each subject with triple the sophistication of my McGill peers. No insults thrown or fingers flipped. No ad hominem remarks towards the professor. Extraordinary, really.

Essentially, my kindergarten class reminds me daily that teaching is an art, not an act. Just as an artist expresses how the world functions using vivid, intriguing techniques, so must a teacher present new information in motivating ways. Just as an artist tries to keep in mind his or her audience, so must a teacher be able to comprehend where his or her students are and where they can go, in order to take them there.

This artist-teacher scenario is not the only belief I have come to increasingly appreciate. By spending time with these extraordinary children, I have had to continually contemplate who I want to be in life. Am I a taker or am I a giver? Am I a conscious consumer or do I ignore the social injustices that pervade our societies? Will I stand up for what I think is right, or will I fear oppression and rejection? This new class has empowered me. Change is possible. Hearts and minds can remain open. When they ask me what “poor” means, I can teach them what it means to live hand-to-mouth and not fear that I will be labelled a propagandist. When I have to explain why “school is a privilege”, I do so by telling them there are days when Palestinian and Israeli children can’t go to school for fear of their schools being bombed.

“But, Franzi-Teacher, why do the airplanes want to drop a bomb on the school?”

“Because adults, big people like your mom and dad, are fighting. And they know that parents love their children very much, so they want to take you away from them to make them do what they want.”

These are not lies. They are well-known facts that like to be swept under the carpet in the name of that cozy feeling we have in our hearts when we buy a new pair of kicks. They are topics that have their rightful place in the classroom, alongside lights-out-flashlight tag, the silly chair bus, and other shenanigans I’m growing fonder of each day...

Thai Express

Fasten your seatbelt. Bring your chair into an upright position. And don’t forget to read the safety manual.

Day 1:


It’s 5:15am. Unlike every other morning, when you relish in the warmth of your blanket nest and try to remain submerged in the hazy deliciousness of your dreams, you throw over the covers and hurry around like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame. Something about walking like a cartoon Neanderthal makes us feel warmer.


You and your partner in crime begin the comfy-clothes-for-the-airport hunt. Nothing will ever be comfy enough. Or warm enough. (The less amusing aspect of traveling to tropical countries is their relentless habit of over-conditioning the air. It’s like they forgot that most of the people in the airport are trying to escape their own frigid climates).  Nevertheless, you manage to fool yourself into thinking that you’re set and march out the door with too much luggage in hand. There you are, in the shadowy streets of Anyang, dragging around a 1970’s Samsonite suitcase that is real snazzy, but lacks the endearing ability to “roll with it”.  But, just when your limbs are about to detach themselves from your torso, St-Christopher appears in the form of a taxi driver. At this point, some of you are thinking that the airport is the next stop. Wrong. COME ON, guys. The next stop is the bus station. So, you get out of the toasty taxi (alliteration, what) and head inside a crowded bus stop that is apparently only body-heat-activated. Did I mention you’re only wearing a humongous sweater because dragging along your 3kg winter jacket would have been ludicrous? Yeah.

Anyways, the bus comes and soon enough you are schlepping your things through Incheon Airport. This place didn’t win Best Airport in the World Award for nothing. The place is a traveller’s dream and you’re on your flight before you can say, “Ya know... I’m actually pretty hungry.” (Maybe that’s a personal issue, but something about being around food that is completely overpriced makes me famished).  Next stop: Shanghai, China. Once off the plane in China, you shuffle through security, push the “I was satisfied with this service” button (because you never know if the Customs officer’s life depends on it), and then embark on a never-ending maze you never signed up for. Shanghai, you get Best Maze in the World Award. Too bad you’re not technically a maze. Maybe work on that?

Flying with China Eastern Airlines proves interesting. Every five minutes, a fine mess of static warns you that the airplane is “experiencing  turbulence”. Not the best lullaby to put you to sleep. Thankfully the idea of scuba diving in the Gulf of Thailand has made it virtually impossible to challenge your nonchalant traveller’s attitude.  You were even able to find some joy in picking the diced pork out of your fried rice. So much for the veggie option.

By the time you land at Suvarnabhumi International Airport, you’re a bit pretzel-like in appearance (airplane seats are something that just don’t seem to evolve). You’re also bloated with hunger. Oh, and you’re staring at the longest Customs line you’ve ever seen (and you’ve worked at Customs). Fortunately, you’ve also been befriended by a cheerful Chinese girl who shares stories with you until it’s finally your turn to walk into the comforting heat of Bangkok at dusk.  


After a nerve-racking five minutes, during which your bus to the train station has arrived but your ever-jovial travel companion is still inside taking a gander at the squatty toilets, you both climb aboard the bus (read “van”) with two Germans and a Belgian. After about 45 minutes, you begin to feel your brow knit together. You’ve been on the bus too long. You don’t even need to look at the time to know that it’s been too long. African Time. African Time. You keep telling yourself that Thailand works on African Time. Long, silent stares at the bustling side streets and intermittent laughter curb any feelings of discomfort. Plus, you’ve already started to plan how you will get your charming old Samsonite to roll in case of emergency.


Upon entering the train station, you have a moment of confusion: “Ummm, did I just step into a time portal? Cause I’ve seen this kind of decor before and it was on the RMS Titanic.” But, although the majestic ceiling and balconies initially steal your attention, your eyes are quickly drawn to the worn, green carpet that covers the entire waiting area. Patches are completely discoloured to an earthy–brown shade. On it sit, not chairs, but a wide array of passengers. Old women lie half asleep hugging their bags to their sides. Children play in dirt that is supposedly nourishing plastic trees and silk flowers. Couples lean against whatever will stand their weight, a slight weariness lining their eyes. A rumble in your stomach reminds you that you are not ready to cozy up with your luggage just yet. With your handsome travel buddy (and the Belgian from the van) at your side, you find a small restaurant across from the train station which proves to, not only make the best pad Thai in Thailand, but house a purring feline that brings perfect satisfaction to a long day of travelling.

Oh wait, there’s still an 8-hour train ride ahead of you. Don’t get too comfortable with that cat.

The train ride is, well, unspectacular in a fabulously chilly, hard, uncompromising, plastic sort of way. Imagine a dentist’s chair, striped of all its cushioning. And the little knob, lever, electric button thingy that lets the chair recline, yeah, it’s not functioning like it used to. Thankfully, your trusty sidekick gave you the most Koreanesque hoody you could have ever imagined for Christmas and you are able to zip up your face and slip into a rather butt-numbing sleep. Did I mention the roaches? Don’t worry, I think you slept with your mouth closed.

Day 2:

You are awakened by artificial light and the abrasive sound of luggage on the move. Your left butt cheek is permanently bruised and your left temple is equally sore from trying to balance on your closed fist against the window pane. It’s like you’ve been holding some sort of wild yoga pose with no health benefits to offset your pain. I don’t think it is superfluous to repeat at this time that everyone around you is darn lucky that you are too excited to start throwing things. Plus, what is there to throw that isn’t valuable in some way? Even the tissues you stowed in your carryon have proved priceless in the land of pay-per-pee. You and your comrade slither off the train. Pastel shades highlight the horizon as dawn creeps onto the mainland. Yes, you have made it to the coast. Scraggly dogs play tag on the strip of beach, as lone fishermen slip into their boats and head out for a long day’s work. You are immediately taken by the charm and beauty of this place. Your body even seems to hurt less surrounded by all the tantalizing scenery.

You get in line for the catamaran that will at last bring you to your destination. As you look around, you suddenly (and therefore stupidly) realize that you’re surrounded by Westerners. You and your 007 exchange a look filled with aversion and self-pity. Okay, maybe for a few seconds. Then you remember that no one will buy your “I’m actually currently Korean” story. Even if you eat kimchi and pork knuckles three times a day for the next seventeen years, no one will believe you have a Korean bone in your body. So, you might as well face the fact that you are undeniably one of those fifty white people on this boat and that you all wanna be certified scuba divers up to 100 feet.  Don’t hate.

The catamaran has only one entertaining feature: it plays the raunchiest music videos you’ve ever witnessed, which, considering your lack of “pop culture” probably isn’t saying much. Still, you glance around, mercilessly judging anyone who looks slightly enthralled. You conclude that it is mostly 50-year-old men who you were suspicious of from the beginning. You’re not ageist, just keepin’ it real. After almost two hours, the catty finally anchors and you step onto the island of Koh Tao. The salty smell of marine life surrounds you as you lug your suitcase off the quay and into the back of a dusty pickup truck. This is your taxi to your bungalow, and no, it’s not the last form of transportation that you will see on this trip. Just wait, next is a scooter and it’s what we like to call B.A. (Mom, that means badass).

 The bungalow proves to be a mild case of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Pretty enough on the outside, a mental obstacle course on the inside. If you hadn’t been raised on a farm and enjoyed squishing steamy cow shit between your toes as a child, you would not have coped as suavely as you do. The sheets have the legacy of all those who came before (I hate puns when my writing’s trying desperately to be G-rated...). Mosquito larvae wiggling around in the toilet? You try to flush the toilet. Doesn’t flush? You manually fill the bowl with water to get it to flush. That doesn’t work? You pee on the poor suckers, let it sit for a blazing hot afternoon, and hope they fail the urine test. They don’t? Well, you don’t really mind that much anyway. You actually develop a habit of letting the pee simmer in the bowl every day in hopes of deterring new mosquito mamas from using your throne as a maternity ward. Considering neither you nor your handsome hunk shower for the following 6 days, you don’t care that the bathroom is now a science lab. In case you’re currently a little revolted, remember that salt water is a natural cleaning agent. Scuba diving purifies all.

You spend the rest of the afternoon familiarizing yourself with your new hood. You go have a chat with the Big Blue diving instructors- their general aura of hakuna matata makes the idea of breathing underwater a little less stressful. You continue by investigating the local shops and restaurants. Your fear of starving on an island surrounded by living seafood turns out to be unwarranted and you savour each sip of your freshly squeezed fruit juice before heading to the Internet café. It may seem a little ridiculous to be on a tropical vacation and hit up the computer room (as if you’re bored to tears or unbearably sunburned), but it is Christmas Eve back home and a sister’s promise must be kept: call if you can. The rest of the day slides out of sight as you explore along the narrow beach. Crabs wiggle away under the sand in a fine cloud of dust. The aquamarine water gives way to a deeper hue as daylight recedes. A gorgeous sunset perfectly complements your plateful of steaming noodles. All that’s missing is a little bit of Marley playing in the background. But, that day will come.

Day 3:

Grunt. Groan.  An extended sound reminiscent of stubborn flatulence. Another grunt. No, the mosquito larvae didn’t transform into pubescent boys during the night. It’s the water pump... for the entire bungalow system at Big Blue Diving. And yes, it is situated, in all its makeshift complexity, underneath your window. Your pane-less window. The pump’s various tunes have thus so rudely invaded your slumber. Not only are you now awake, but you are suddenly aware of an intense throbbing in your lower back. As you move, your head also explodes into pain. You try closing your eyes, but you hallucinate that you’re falling... as if a massive weight is willing your body through the bed. Your skin is rigid with goosebumps, letting you know a fever has set in. Then you recall that this has happened before. It was a night from Dante’s Inferno, and the date and place shall never be forgotten: May 18^th, 2007 in St-Marc, Haiti. Your heart begins to quiver in your chest as you acknowledge the fact that scuba diving and Untreated Tropical Weirdnesses (that’s what you’ve since baptized it) are not exactly compatible.

Despite feeling chilled and sickly, you decide to climb your way out of the cavern that disguises as a mattress and begin to prepare for the day: Bathing suit. Check.  Sunscreen. Check. Water. Check. Sunglasses. Check. Book. Check. Coarse, stiff, stained, thin, generally useless bathroom towel that will have to do. Check. Stud muffin of a boyfriend. Check.

Sticky with sunscreen, you doze off into a delightfully sunlit snooze on the beach. Hey, maybe you can just bake the pain away. Five hours later, you know that your plan has been unsuccessful. Even with your daily dose of vitamin D and a scrumptious meal in your belly, your body is still yelling at you: “Hey! Doctor. STAT. Remember Haiti? Yeah? Cool, thanks.”

So you head off to the Big Blue Diving hut where you shiver and hunch like a hoodlum, explaining your symptoms: “Uhhh... I woke up with this pain... in my back... severe pain. My head is... ummm... exploding? I have this weird veiny stuff down my leg... Oh, since noon... And I’m freezing...” One of the diving instructors gives you directions to the local clinic. Your teeth clickety-clack all the way there.

Doctor: “It could be Dengue fever, or a kidney infection, or a respiratory infection.”

Eenie, meenie, minie, mo...

The doctor gives you a bunch of pills and tells you to come back in the morning. You are also told you can no longer go scuba diving, at which point you put on your sunglasses and let your tears spill over. Dinner better be damn good.

Day 4:

Monday morning begins with you trying to hack up your left kidney. The phlegmy cough confirms the doctor’s suspicions of a respiratory infection and he doles out another two baggies of medication (both Korea and Thailand seem to believe that healing comes in the variety and quantity of weird little ecstasy-esque pills you consume... the more, the better). Now, despite your uncanny ability to disregard a doctor’s orders, you are quite a diligent pill-popper for at least 24-hours. Hey, your chance at scuba diving depends on it.

With no scuba lessons in the forecast, the day is dedicated to exploring the island via scooter. First stop: The Lookout. The Lookout turns out to be part of a resort that is well beyond your budget, but you and your man saunter in like you own the place (ooze confidence when in distress). The sauntering is worth it. Enormous, weather-worn rocks jut out of the tumultuous waters. The roaring waves have petrified every crab out of the sea and they all cling urgently to the algaed rocks. Unlike the poor crustaceans below you, you decide to venture down near the turbulence, you know, just to check out the situation. After taking enough pictures to rival a Bond girl photo shoot, you drive off to your next destination: over the hill.

You never quite make it over the hill on scooter, but you do reach the crest. You arrive on the east side of the island by foot (but not before encountering runaway roosters, miniature temples on pedestals- complete with tiny ladders, and plenty of breathtaking flora). Even with overcast skies, the scenery is striking with its fierce waves and remarkably defiant buoys in the distance. You settle down for some lunch in a charming restaurant right on the water. You’re close enough to feel the ocean's spray delicately freckle your arms and face. Life is good.

After lunch, you come to a literal fork in the road. You chose to undertake the more challenging route, and well, you end up hiking part of it while your handsome stud lurches the scooter down slippery slopes. Is it worth it? Of course. Sitting high up on a sun-baked rock, the island enfolds around you: rumbling clouds, lush jungle, endless sea, tiny huts dotting the shoreline... A sociable cat also climbs up onto the rock, rubbing gently against you and prancing lightly on your belly when your petting wavers.  A scrawny puppy joins the troupe, his wet nose quivering with a combination of curiosity and fright. Doctor Doolittle Goes to Thailand.

Wait, aren’t you supposed to be feeling sick? It’s either the cat or the meds. You're betting on the cat.

Day 5:

Your days of compliance with doctor recommendations are over. You did not come all the way to Koh Tao to watch your boyfriend get a scuba diving license while you pound back pills and watch idiots get sunburned to a peeled, polka-dotted perfection. You will be scuba diving. Today.

 Here is the summary of what you learn in the first few hours of scuba diving, all of which takes place in a pool: Rule #1: Always look cool. Rule #2: It’s a mask, not goggles. Rule #3: They are fins, not flippers. Rule #4: Breathe. Always. Puke, sneeze, cry, bleed, cough. Just don’t stop breathing. Pulmonary embolisms are not your friend. Now, it may seem completely evident that one must continue inhaling and exhaling underwater, but your body is not convinced. After years of plugged-nose cannon-balling, your brain is fighting with you: “WAIT. Water means hold your breath. Hold your breath. Hold it! You’ll die... Wait, you’re dying! Get out of the water. GET OUT!” And so you resurface, shaking with embarrassment and general distress. Your sympathetic scuba instructor tells you it’s perfectly normal and that many people start panicking because their minds tell them their drowning. Awesome.

Thanks to 24 years of indoctrination via movies/scholarly documentaries, your instructor’s British accent convinces you that you’re not going to drown in the training pool. In and out. In and out. Just breathe. Come on, you’re a champ. Go pretend you’re a fish again.

You survive the day and manage to adopt a relatively normal breathing pattern, though your regulator is still clenched in a death grip between your teeth. You also complete the necessary scuba skills the instructor teaches you: removing and replacing your mask with your eyes closed, pretending to lose your regulator and finding it again, having your buddy fake an empty tank so you have to rescue him. Eventually everyone’s lips are a cool shade of purple and you get to peel out of your wetsuit. Your first day of scuba diving is over, and now that your vocal frustration (euphemism) has reduced itself to a mild mumbling, you can appreciate what you’ve accomplished.

The day ends with you stretched out on a weathered wooden deck, your empty plate and full stomach the only reminders of the good grub you just scarfed down. You casually eavesdrop on a Swiss couple... You even contemplate introducing yourself (as if to warn them that you’re listening), but decide instead to strike up conversation with a friendly feline who curls into your lap. Bob Marley’s husky voice wraps itself around you and the reggae rhythm becomes your heartbeat: "Let them all pass all their dirty remarks. There is one question I'd really like to ask: Is there a place for the hopeless sinner who has hurt all mankind just to save his own? Believe me: One love, one heart, let's get together and feel alright!" 

Day 6:

The rehearsal is over: it’s show time. You wake up early enough to gulp down a cup of tea before being herded onto a boat at 8am for your first-ever open water dive. Here is where you discover a previously unknown, frankly exasperating, aspect of your physiology: you are prone to sea sickness. You are left with one question: How is this possible? You’ve been on big ships, little ships, ferries. You’ve canoed and kayaked... even gone white-water rafting through the rainforest. You’ve had dinner on a boat, slept on a boat, survived the catamaran ride to get to this island. And yet here you are, struggling to hold down your Earl Grey. You huddle in a ball with your eyes tightly closed. Nothing like choppy waves to throw your stomach into reverse. Finally an instructor locates you and hands you, yes, yet another pill. Being somewhat sceptical of the efficacy of most medicine, you are pleasantly surprised when your nausea slips away and suddenly you find both your sea legs and your appetite. You take advantage by stuffing your face with stale chocolate sandwich cookies you discovered in the kitchen area.

With renewed anticipation, you slither into your damp wetsuit (as enjoyable as putting on wet underwear), heave on your tank, do a buddy check to make sure you won’t run out of air or accidently die from some sort of poison gas that may have made it into your tank), snap on your fins and mask, and are ready to jump in.

As promised, what awaits you underneath the waves is worth all the anxiety, frustration, and swallowed sea water. It’s unearthly, and yet it is most of our Earth. Plankton clouds the water, immense schools of fish scoot away from you as you make your way down the rope, colour drains away the farther down you go. At twelve metres you let go of the rope, find your buoyancy, and venture off. Clownfish flit back and forth between the gelatinous tentacles of sea anemones. Parrotfish nibble at your ankles, while angelfish glide by without regard. The variety and bounty of the sea astounds you... Everything is encrusted with life and you carefully adjust your buoyancy to avoid brushing against the stag’s horn coral surrounding you. Just a small piece breaking off is the destruction of a century’s worth of growth. Not a burden of guilt you want to carry around for the rest of your life.

Near the end of your dive, the instructor points out some wildlife whose camouflage makes them virtually invisible to the untrained eye. Scorpion fish dart in and out of their rocky grottos. Stingrays lay inconspicuously under a shadowy overhang. This is what it’s all about. Seeing the unbelievable wealth of the ocean and remembering why it is important to respect it and protect it.

After resurfacing, debriefing, and setting foot back on dry land, there are only two things on your mind: #1- “Now that was pretty awesome!” and #2- “I’m actually ravenous. Truly.” Accompanied by your sweetheart, you go to a movie night being held at a local restaurant (nothing like watching the Titanic sink and Jack die), enjoy a tasty dinner, and then recline on the beach to let Thai teenagers blow your mind with their flame throwing tricks. You know you’ve overstayed when drunk foreigners decide to join in the fire games... time for bed.

Day 7:

You wake up at dawn with this knowledge: It’s your last day on Koh Tao. No more beachside meals, no more 12$ massages (which, unbelievably, haven’t been mentioned until now), no more sea breeze, and no more mosquito larvae swimming in your toilet. You munch contemplatively on your breakfast, waiting for 6:30am to roll around when a boat will take you out for your last two dives. The first dive is much like yesterday’s, except you make it down to eighteen metres and are given more liberty to swim around with only your scuba buddy. Adjusting your buoyancy already proves easier and your anxiety about bumping into coral subsides enough for you to risk drifting carefully over it at a proximity of six inches or so.

The last dive is going to be filmed, so it must be completed in utmost style. That stylin’ starts with the entry: a 007 front flip. Throughout the dive, you work the camera. Do a few swirls, twirls, fist fight with your buddy, build a human pyramid, pull off yoga poses... You complete all the necessary skills tests and are finally handed a wallet-sized piece of plastic with your name and mug shot on it. You are now officially a pseudo-fish.

Once your dive is over, you have a couple hours to say goodbye to the island. It starts at your bungalow, where you shake the sand out of your dirty clothes, shove them into your luggage, and give a ciao-for-now love pat to the frumpy mattress. You will be back. Next, you pay your dues at the dive shop, where you become aware of your fiscally dire situation. Finally, you curl up on a couch at the Big Blue Diving restaurant and eat your last delectable meal. At 6:00pm, the rest of your dive team shows up and you watch the diving video that was shot early in the day. When it is finished, you all cheer like a bunch of yahoos who just won a rugby match, and you and your lover hurry off to catch the last night boat leaving the island. With a copy of the video in hand, of course.

The night boat adventure is unfortunate in only one way: Here you are on a boat full of strangers, lying on a floor cramped with miniature gym mats, and you... you fall asleep. You fall asleep when it could have been one of the most intriguing people-watching episodes of your life. Fail. End of the night boat adventure.

Day 8:

Waking up to the sound of a boat’s engine while lying on a sweaty leather mattress next to people you’ve never met is probably the closest you will ever be to feeling like a third class ticket on the Titanic. After the boat has anchored (not so Titanic-like), you march off the deck with your Samsonite in hand and look for the “airport shuttle”. There is no shuttle. In fact, no shuttle ever presents itself. What there is, however, is a man with a beat up pickup truck. And the man with the truck wants you to hop into the back and trust him that you will eventually arrive at Surat Thani International Airport. It being 5:30am and you having great faith in humankind, the man’s wish is granted. He Arnold Schwarzenegger’s your suitcase onto the top of his truck, ties it down, and off you go. Does he bring you to the airport? Well, not exactly. More like a dépanneur with a breakfast menu. However, in due course a bus does arrive and you are whisked off to make your morning flight to Bangkok.

One eventless flight and overpriced Tuk-Tuk ride later you arrive at your hotel and throw yourself across the bed. It’s New Year’s Eve! You are in Bangkok! Yet you and your man are both aware of your exhaustion after three days of scuba diving, late nights on the beach, and less than estimable sleeping conditions. Still, you peel yourselves off the bed, dress up in the only fancy clothing you hauled along on this trip, and head out in search of a good night. With your arms linked and a confident bounce in your step, you stumble upon a pleasant restaurant right on your street. The place oozes good atmosphere, with its miniature waterfall, pond swarming with fish, and enormous monk statues, kneeling here and praying there. You spend the entire dinner debating together: Must you return to work or could you just fake a misfortunate event and stay? How will you support yourselves, monetarily speaking? Would returning to Korea be more bearable if the temperature was not a glacial -17°C? Why doesn’t Maple Bear have a franchise in Thailand? With a swig, you both finish your drinks, stare into each other’s eyes... and then he says it: “I have a headache. I just need a quick nap. How about we... go back to the hotel, take a nap, and then get up around 10:00pm and go out?” Part of you knows exactly what is about to happen, but you don’t fight it. You both collapse on the bed and New Year’s in Bangkok is rung in without you. At around 2:00am your sidekick wakes up for a minute, whispers “Happy New Year...”, and then you both float back into your dreams.

You wake up in the morning, still spread across the bed, your bra’s underwire trying to claw its way through your ribcage. Your beaded anklet has left purple indents on your right ankle and your eyes loathe the fact that you neglected to remove your contacts. All of a sudden you are aware of the situation. You missed New Year’s. One night in Bangkok and the world’s your oyster and... you fell asleep. Unreal. Unreal. It’s unreal how good a nap can make you feel! You quickly draw up a blueprint of your final day in Thailand and step out into the sunshine.

The day turns out to be perfectly balmy. You temple hop the entire day, exploring vibrant courtyards, examining the detailed architecture and unbelievable statues, and befriending the plethora of “temple cats” you spot along the way. You are awed by so many sights and sounds: the reverence Thai people have for their king, the absurd amount of pollution that pervades the city, the secret nooks of wildlife that thrive despite it all, the contrast of lifestyle between the haves and havenots... things you have seen before, but which never fail to astound you. You are, once again, obliged to face the reality of your existence. That it is different from those you see around you. That you are blessed and that certain responsibility stems from this truth.

Your extensive walk ends through a sidewalk brimming with every bloom and blossom imaginable. Flower stalls envelop you on either side in a picturesque cascade of colour, but there is something missing. Aromas. Sweet smells of nectar and perfume! The flowers have obviously been GMOed to scentlessness and this carves a furrow in your brow. Fortunately, life is a fine balance, which means for every negative aspect, one is able to find something equally positive. That evening, before catching a taxi to the airport, you are stopped in your tracks by a voice. The voice is absolutely enchanting. Young, yet wise, sweet, yet powerful. You locate its source and there she is, that “equally positive something” personified. What enraptures you the most is her choice of songs... songs you haven’t heard in ages. Songs that connect you to specific moments and ideas. Songs you never thought a Thai girl across the world would embrace and sing with such passion and conviction.

It is all over. You are at the airport. The next thing you know you are on a flight back to Korea, where your daily life will greet you and make the sundrenched days of Koh Tao seem like a distant memory. And that’s okay, because right now, Korea is where you need to be. You are always where you need to be.

Silence and Substance

My slightly hermitesque behaviour began approximately three months ago. Franzi Kaiser the introvert? Notice the cows jumping over the moon to your left. Oh, and the pigs flying on your right.

Okay, so the farm animals aren’t defying gravity, but there has definitely been something rather unusual about my behaviour since my arrival in Korea. I’ve been guarded, quiet, and perhaps even a bit mysterious. Identifying myself as a rather gregarious creature, I felt disoriented in my newfound silence. And yet I didn’t want to break the stillness... it was as if I had forgotten the very reason why I had become an expressive individual to begin with. Thankfully, a week of introspection has led me to the following conclusion: My silence is not incorrigible- I just needed to remember the substance that made me want to speak in the first place.

 Forgive me if my philosophizing fails to compete with the comical geniuses in my classroom.

I believe there has always been a part of my soul searching for the reflective and the genuine. I certainly indulged myself in a certain brand of literature: diving into the woeful truths of the Sierra Leonean soldier boy, the tailor on the dusty streets of Mumbai, the unbearable lightness of being. I’d feel my heart tighten at the wisdom of a gorilla or the relationship between an aged German musician and his child prodigy. Novels seemed to continually help me in my attempts to jump over the barrier of The Mundane which can easily erect itself in one’s mind... the barrier that prevents you from focusing on change and truth and deludes you into thinking that your purchasing power is more significant. You know the barrier I’m referring to. How many times have teachers attempted to recruit talented, intelligent individuals, only to be blown off? Unfortunately, 30-hour famines and buying Reach Lesotho bracelets don’t make it onto many people’s priority list. Don’t think you’ve never been that talented, intelligent individual.  

Anyway, as I look back on my own youth, something now strikes me as slightly tragic: There I sat... at the top, academically, athletically, and socially, and yet I often shrouded my belief in social justice and my mind’s philosophical meanderings. Sure, I would volunteer, help organize events, and allow my teachers to take a gander at my opinions (a paper on School of the Americas will do that), but everything was done too quietly. I dissuaded myself from taking on the most difficult task: letting people know it was cool to care.

Thankfully, my ability to vocalize my true interests and beliefs improved with age. I would argue that a two-year Liberal Arts program can ignite the soul of any lost traveller, but I can only speak for myself. Ignite is an understatement in my case. From Boethius to the Zapatista movement, I was able to awaken that slumbering desire within me. The desire to seek understanding and become a more wholesome person from it. And I believe it began to radiate from me. By the time I started university, my daily encounters with complete strangers became somewhat routine. I seemed to draw people to me, and the connection often felt raw, even spiritual. It was as if I had this flashing neon sign that beckoned people towards me, that invited them to share a part of themselves so that I could give them a piece of what I had gathered through my experiences. It was always immediately after such an encounter that I would remember to appreciate movement, breath, and sight. It was as if my senses became purified just from connecting with others.

And yet here I’ve been... my recluse behaviour making me wonder if I’d lost the energy that drove me back home. But, like a sleeping cat, the energy is slowly awakening again inside me. Despite the enormous language barrier and tiresome office cliques, I have regained a sense of what I have always wanted to offer the people I meet: understanding and a willingness to share knowledge. So what if I can’t speak Hangul? The retired university professor in his sky blue three-piece suit is still delighted to have even the simplest of conversations. So what if I hate office politics and have sworn off making friends with anyone? The teacher who comes over to my desk and says: “Franzi, I want to be friends with you!” wins my heart. So what if I’m in Korea? My dear friend Paul dragged himself here for a weekend dedicated to eating Indian food, sweating in a jinjibang, and contemplating life.

Despite geographical relocation, my quest to make the world a better place through daily interactions and connections has not ceased. No, I may have clammed up for a while, getting my bearings and whatnot, but my belief in growth through sharing is still very much intact. I henceforth relinquish my hermithood.

Is My Grandma Mud?

Every day, I try to remember that my students’ minds are like soft lumps of clay. Malleable. Impressionable. They can be formed into the most heinous piece of garbage or an artistic masterpiece that delights the senses of its observers.

Every day, my students remind me in which direction I am forming their minds. Most of the time, I am pleased with the outcomes... and it’s not just because I’ve caught them apologizing to anchovies before eating them.

The following are excerpts from my daily interactions with little people:

We had been studying our Oceans unit for approximately two weeks when I decided I had to explain certain cruel realities. One truth I shared with my class was how manatees are endangered due to human exploits- specifically, that they are recurrent victims of boat propellers. As in they get sliced up. Badly. Sometimes they die. Yep.

Now, I obviously wanted some sort of tree-hugging-hippie reaction, and I was slightly disappointed when we simply moved on to the next tale of terror. However, I soon realized all was not lost. The next week I took my students to the local aquarium so they could get up close and personal with their beloved hammerhead sharks and jellyfish. Well, after seeing thirty-seven types of fish we hadn’t studied, we finally got to the manatee tank.

Beloved Student: “Franzi-Teacher is this the one who dies by propeller?”

Franzi-Teacher: “Yep. Look at all its cuts. Pretty sad, huh?”

Beloved Student: “Poor manatee…”

Now, I thought that was the end of it. I had forged some sort of temporary empathy in a little boy. I figured that was all my little horror story was worthy of. Wrong. The very next day, the Beloved Student had to do a presentation on an ocean animal. Several students had gone before him with beautifully decorated posters which had been the handiwork of mothers… and Wikipedia. Then the Beloved Student got up and proudly displayed his poster. We all took it in: On a yellowed piece of paper, he had drawn three tiny sketches of his dear manatees. In a jagged scrawl, he had written everything he knew:

-They are huge and big.

-They live in ocean.

-They eat the cabbage. (only in aquariums, but hey, the kid’s observant)

and…

-They died by propeller.

Some of the kids giggled and questioned why his poster looked so homely. In my best teacher voice I took his defense: “This… is exactly what I wanted. [Beloved Student], you did such a great job!” My class now understands that I don’t deal well with Mamas-R-Us posters. Keep it real. Keep it personal. Keep it simple.

See, the best conversations can sprout from the personal, the simple, and the real:

Personal: I asked how they think salt got in the ocean.

-“Bad man put salt in the ocean.”

-“Rain came down and an octopus did it.” 

Come again?

Simple: I had been teaching my students that certain sea creatures were invertebrates. However, it was evident to me that some of the vocabulary was just beyond their reach: “What’s an en-vel-ta … ?”

“An invertebrate is an animal with no backbone.”

Blank stares filled the room while some feeble attempts were made at mimicking me. I then repeated the word, this time inadvertently wiggling my spine to the syllables: “In-ver-te-brate!”

With their backs arching to and fro like trees in a typhoon, they all shouted back, “In-ver-te-brate!”

And it was that easy. What’s a little seat wiggling when they get the answer right?

Real: Hagfish. Repulsive old farts that eat their prey from the inside out. However, somehow I was ill-prepared for a hag-related question when it came up during lunchtime:

"How do hagfish get inside the fish?”

My eyes widened a little as I looked at the student who had posed the question, “Ummm, through holes in its body.”

I was mistaken in thinking that would be the end of it.

“What is that?”

Was this kid really going to make me say it? “Ummmm. Like… its mouth…”  

“And?”

“And… its… .” I pointed to my butt.

“What?”

Insert me pointing to my butt again and making a purposefully awkward/pained face.

“Oooooh.”

Sometimes our lunch conversations are reminiscent of past family dinners when my father decided to describe in vivid detail a calf’s pea-green diarrhea. Yum.

And then there was the death talk. For the first time, I experienced the enormous burden of explaining life and death to a group of mega-minors. Pre-minors. Mini-people who you would not suspect of caring too much about the afterlife. Well, they do, folks.

Unbelievably, this death talk started off as an innocent discussion on the five layers of the ocean. See, the Abyssal Zone happens to have a profound layer of mud, constantly deepened by the decaying bones of marine animals. When hands started flying up, I further explained the breakdown of bones and how all animals are composed of the same material as the earth. Therefore, upon death, living things become dirt again. Hands lowered hesitantly, until one girl fearfully asked: “Is my grandma… mud?”

And so it began.

First I had the child clarify whether her grandmother was currently in a state wherein she could even become mud. I then clarified that mud was a combination of water and dirt, and that since people weren’t buried in the ocean (typically), her grandmother was more likely dirt than mud. The more I rambled the more I felt like I was in some sort of scientific nightmare. Thankfully, one of the students helped free me of my longwinded logical jargon: “I think we go up to the sky when we die.” I gratefully opened the spiritual door and explained that many people think that the soul inside a person’s body goes to Heaven when they die. The tension that had built up throughout the discussion slowly dissipated. “But”, I stated clearly, “our bodies still turn into dirt.”

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

How Do You Know Everything?

 “How do you know everything?”

All my talk about cumulus, cirrus, and stratus clouds had seemingly exposed the philosophical heart of one of students. Although I responded to the question rather lightly, I’ve certainly been chewing on it ever since. How do I know everything I know? My response about how I’m older and therefore more experienced now sounds more like an excuse than an answer. I honestly think I missed a prime opportunity to let them in on a deep, dark secret called… lifelong-learning.  

If I could find a way to navigate through space and time, this is what I would now tell them. Very slowly. In ESL-friendly language:

“Starting now, develop an innate desire to learn on your own. Learning, however, is more than memorizing facts and giving responses you know that people want to hear. It is about connecting, transferring, and recalling obtained knowledge in new situations. It is about constructing a better self to make a better world. Here are some tips to keep in mind if you want to be on the road to wisdom by age 23:

1.    If you like reading, start collecting magazines about nature, space, machines, whatever makes your socks go up and down. Go back to them multiple times: cut out pictures, test yourself on what you remember, find out more about the things that interest you. Give impromptu presentations to your classmates about cool things you’ve learned or about a cause that speaks to you. Cover your binders and duotangs with cut-outs from your favourite mag. Only throw out the magazines when you’re in high school and can’t read them due to all the missing pages and pictures.

2.    Encourage your parents to purchase you informative placemats. My parents did not need persuasion, but some mums and dads might cave in to your Hello Kitty and Transformer desires, despite your best interests. A placemat is responsible for me knowing how long a blue whale is without researching it, guys. Another placemat is accountable for my ability to draw the map of Canada freehanded with noticeable accuracy. Go buy some better placemats.

3.    Don’t ever consider life boring. When I was in about grade four, I told the school secretary that I was bored. She looked at me sternly and said: “Only boring people are bored.” The next time I felt bored, I assure you, I took care of business. First, I got my hands on some cardboard (which my mother keeps in ample supply in the attic, in case the government ever outlaws boxes or something). Second, I began to construct my own board game. Third, I tried to play my board game. Fail. Fourth, I began to acknowledge the effort and ingenuity that goes into such ventures. I now privately pay my respects to the inventor before indulging in any sort of board game.

4.    Care. Be angry. Be concerned. Shake your fist in the air and damn poachers to the grave. Your empathy, exasperation, exhilaration, exaltation are simply signs of a healthy heart and a soul that has a lot of room for growth.

See, kids, learning is about trying to make yourself expand in a variety of directions. It is not about taking the advice of those who you admire uncritically, but rather about evaluating it yourself and taking what works. Also, remember to look into even those things that you don’t agree with. Find out more about what scares you, what angers you, what makes you roll your eyes. Everything has a beginning and the beginning’s often followed by a frighteningly long story that will enrapture you…

Oh, and if you’re still wondering about the clouds… you can thank Danny Dancose, my grade eight science teacher.”

Out For Blood

I have surrendered. It is zero-three-hundred hours. The war against The Mosquitoes has lasted all night and they have finally outwitted me in terms of both weaponry and defence. I am too sweet, too slow, and too exposed. Their relentlessness and my burrowing is reminiscent of World War I trench warfare.

 It has now been three weeks since my apartment became a haven for mosquitoes virtually every night. It started with mild belligerency- an occasional buzzing and bite. (Wait... buzzing mosquitoes? Oh, believe me, folks, these ain’t no ordinary mosquitoes. They wake you with their siren-like wail, as if to warn you, and then dive bomb to inject you with the itchiest venom they could scrounge up. Unfortunately, they aren’t kamikazes- that would be too helpful.) Recently, however, the night raids have escalated to something I simply can’t tolerate. Here have been my defence strategies:

1. Dressing up for Nordic conditions with the hopes of reducing the amount of bare skin. This included tying a hoody tight around my face, leaving only the middle of my face exposed to the elements. Was it a successful strategy? Ask my face after it looked like I had a mild case of the chicken pox for a week. Of course, I’m exaggerating, but five bites to the face is definitely a painful lesson in humility.

2. Burning incense. For some reason, I thought that because my incense smells like the weird “dragon” sticks I was told to burn in Haiti, it would ward off the beasties. I guess I chose to forget the part where the dragon sticks worked horribly and I ended up experiencing a night full of hallucinations, including one of falling through my bed and being incapable of opening my eyes. If the mosquitoes became feverish off my incense, I was not made aware of it.

3. Keeping the fan on throughout the night, despite chilly temperatures. I can’t really explain this tactic, except that I apparently thought the wind current would blow the pests off track. It didn’t.

4. Burning candles. See failed strategy #2 for possible explanations.

5. Flinging the blankets wildly every half hour. Opening the lights. Hunting down the mosquitoes with the palm of my hand. Wiping up the blood of my sworn enemies with my recycled toilet paper. Probably the most successful method of defence if we are taking a head count, but not conducive to restful nights. Plus, whenever I squash a mosquito, it’s a bit disturbing to discover how much bloodsucking was done before I was able to retaliate effectively.

Anyway, this past night I tried a combination of the above-mentioned strategies since my bite count has gone into the double digits. I guess I thought that mixing it up a bit would confuse and divide the forces. Funny how I’m the one up in bed writing and I have yet to see the mosquitoes retire. Maybe they do their blogging during the daytime...

The Flood, the Good Samaritan, a Temple, a Mountain, and Definitely More Than Two Fish

No, the following is not a Bible story, but rather a detailed account of my latest whirlwind adventure- Busan. In Korea, there is a fall holiday not unlike dear old Thanksgiving back home. Chuseok, however, does not require the sacrifice of thousands of turkeys. Nope, they keep it simple: rice, rice cakes, rice noodles, popped rice, rice cream... okay, not rice cream, but you get my drift. Anyway, Chuseok brought with it a 4-day vacation from those toothless grins I’ve become rather fond of. Add on a weekend and Morgan and I had 6 days of freedom. It was time to plan a getaway.

I’m going to begin the description of our voyage by mentioning that I now firmly believe in the hunter-gatherer theory. As resident berry picker, I was soon made responsible for picking a destination, picking the price, the seats, the motel, the activities... Yeah, a true cave woman was wrought within me. Who became the hunter? None other than my handsome and strapping cave partner, Morgan Herrick. Hunter tasks soon proved to be rather infrequent, although definitely essential. Please feel free to take notes of the “hunter” and “gatherer” moments throughout the trip. Maybe even swap notes with a friend to compare interpretations. Just one idea of how you can spice up blog-reading!

Thrifty Encino woman that I am, I wanted to go somewhere beautiful and sunny, sure, but it also had to be cheap. Sounds easy given my location? Well, go look at a map. I may seem close to a ton of gorgeous tropical destinations, but they are farther than you’d imagine. And too bloody expensive to get to on such short notice. So, I was left choosing between Korea and... Korea! I finally decided on Busan, a lovely port city on the southeast coast of Korea.  Friends had raved about the place, so I knew we were in for a good time. After booking KTX (high-speed train) tickets online, there was no turning back. Departure time: 8:40pm on Tuesday, September 21, 2010. Now all we had to do was get to Seoul Station.

Well, on the evening of our departure, God decided he’d made a mistake with the whole rainbow bit and that there was to be a second flood. Specifically in Korea. Oh, Korea. What hast thou done? The streets transformed into rivers in no time and we were dragging our luggage through ankle-deep water all the way to the bus stop. Once at the metro station, we thought we were home free. Wrong. About three stops in, the metro came to a halt and stopped running. The verdict? The metro had flooded in various sections between Anyang and Seoul. We would have to take a bus. Awesome.

Morgan and I heaved our luggage back outside under a frighteningly gloomy sky. Being above ground again had not been part of our quest, and maybe this showed on our faces because we were quickly taken under the wings of a young man. He asked us what our destination was and then offered to escort us as far as necessary. And he did. We were sardined onto a bus, exchanging a few words here and there. He was originally from Seoul but had moved to Anyang due to a job opportunity. He was heading to a family Chuseok dinner and was apparently in no rush to get there. When we finally arrived at a connecting bus stop, the man got off with us to ensure we took the right bus to Seoul Station. After already showing us much sympathy and kindness, he gave us his contact information and said that we could always reach him if we needed help with anything. Needless to say, we arrived just in time for our KTX train and even had a spare moment to text our new acquaintance a heartfelt thank you.

The KTX ride leaves no real memory in my mind except that I was forced to perpetually listen to an instrumental version of Let It Be. Now, I have a special place in my heart for the Beatles, but I must admit I began frowning when the song starting playing for the third time in a row. I kid you not. By the fifth time, Morgan and I were already engrossed in an episode of Heroes.

Knowing we would arrive in Busan late Tuesday night, I had already booked a room for the night at Elysee Motel. The name and description intrigued me: “Enjoy reminiscence and romanticism at Elysee”. As some of my dedicated readers may have guessed by now, there was no crystal castle waiting for us in Busan. Nope, it was a love motel, complete with photos of naked girls taped to the doorframe. I hate to admit it, but we weren’t even disappointed. Come on, when do you ever get to stay in a place that has this kind of dualism: porn lining the shelves and frosted windows with fawns and birds printed on them? Okay, fine, maybe you have a twisted great uncle, but generally you only find such treats in a love motel. And it got better. The ceiling above the bed was a carpet with an underwater ocean scene printed on it. Special lights lit up the carpet so that at night you could stare up at your very own aquarium. There was even a Jacuzzi with seats for three people. Three people? As if there had been any doubt about it being a Love Motel... We stayed there for the next four nights.

On Wednesday, the rain which had followed us from Seoul had not let up. Yuck. Nothing like rain to make you want to stay in bed and dream of Tahiti. Well, when you can’t enjoy the ocean on your doorstep, it’s time to head to the local aquarium and play pretend! Cameras in hand we headed to Busan Aquarium. The aquarium proved enormous. Giant sea turtles, sharks, jellyfish, crabs, eels, octopi, shrimp... the place was swimming with life and colour. Although some may not believe in keeping these sea creatures in captivity, I must tell you that the more I reflected on the idea, the more I became convinced that many forms of marine life are safer behind glass than in the ocean. After seeing Jagalchi Fish Market, I will swear it.

The next morning, I was awoken by something unfamiliar around 8:00am. Wait... could it be? Sunshine had finally found its way to Korea! Sunshine- you have no real appreciation of the role it plays in mood alteration until it reappears after a long absence. With Fred Flintstone still in bed, I had time to look up some sunny-day activities. Korea is predominantly a Christian and Buddhist country, which means the cities are teeming with neon crosses and the mountainsides are sprinkled with Buddhist swastikas. I decided that it would be an interesting experience to visit a Buddhist temple, and Beomeosa was relatively close by. Beomeosa, which means “Temple of the Nirvana Fish”, was built into the side of Mount Geumjeongsan about 1,300 years ago. Legend says there was a well with gold water on the top of Mount Geumjeongsan. Golden fish lived in the well and came down from the sky riding on colourful clouds. You must see our photos to get a glimpse of this “golden well”. I definitely had a good laugh once I got over my disenchantment.

Beomeosa, although crowded by Korean pilgrims and visitors, was the perfect place to spend a beautiful day. The “temple” was actually several buildings scattered on the bottom of the mountain face. Each building was made of huge wooden logs, intricately painted in vibrant hues of turquoise, red, and blue. Swastikas, flowers, and fish had been delicately hewn into the roof trimmings. Mystical caricatures and stories were engraved on rock surfaces, while majestic statues of deities collected dust in the summer heat. Although most visitors were simply observing the exquisiteness of the scenery and the art, there were still many others who were carefully placing their shoes outside the various temples and noiselessly meditating, a subtle smile playing on their lips. Visiting Beomeosa temple was strange in that it was easy to forget that monks actually still live and work there. We did, however, witness a monk meditating (Morgan didn’t seem to believe it was an invasion of privacy) and there were several grey-cloaked men wandering around the yards by the end of the day. Two felines mischievously batting a rag outside validated the existence of a stable civilization.

After our meanderings between and through the temples, Morgan and I let the sounds of rushing water lead us to what looked like an endless riverbed of enormous rocks. Stone upon stone had settled on top of a still running river. Perhaps a glacier or landslide had brought the rocks tumbling to their resting place. Whatever the story, the sight was breathtaking and we probably could have spent our entire trip walking along that river, in complete awe of nature’s inconceivable beauty. However, instead of squatting on monk land, we eventually left. But only after we’d crawled around and found spiders, flowers, minnows... all tiny in comparison to the boulders in our midst. On our way back to the bus, we both came to the realization that we'd have to return. And we did.

Friday brought us another gorgeous day, providing the perfect opportunity to explore the harbour. First we went up to Busan Tower, an observatory tower which gave us a brief glimpse at Busan’s history and an incredible view of the port. As I gazed over the immense cityscape, I kept dwelling on the same thought: Humans are pests. We have killed, burned, and cut down everything around us to make increasingly more room for ourselves. We take everything and give very little. I voiced my world-weariness to Morgan, who said: “You know, the city really does look like a manmade forest... only the trees are skyscrapers.” His remark made me smile wistfully and I sighed: “Concrete jungle.”

I said that life, sweet life, it must be somewhere to be found.

Oh, instead of concrete jungle! Illusion! Confusion!

Dear Robert Nesta Marley, thank you for your wisdom.

Once out of the tower, we established that, despite our aversion to the amount of flesh this country consumes, Jagalchi Fish Market was probably quite the sight to see. People, brace yourselves. Actually, here’s a little interlude to give you time to prepare for fishy business:

On our way to Jagalchi, we stopped at a tea shop I’d spotted on Wednesday. I had fallen in love with the hand-sewn ornaments dangling in the windows and was resolute on purchasing a few. What a charming little shop it turned out to be. The owner ushered us to bar stools at the front of his shop, offering us free samples of his tea. As we perched ourselves and settled in, he steeped us a delicious pot of Taiwanese green tea. Then the sharing began. Six pots of tea later, we knew more about this man than most people we’d met in Korea. He was a tea specialist with two brothers living in America- who unfortunately only drank coffee. His wife, who made him smile every time he mentioned her, had sewn the tea-stuffed ornaments in the window. He had even helped a friend set up a tea shop in the Eastern Townships. The Eastern Townships! To top off what was already a semi-mystical encounter, there was a stray cat being housed in the tea shop. She eats and bunks in the store, but can still come and go as she pleases. I was beaming by the time we left the shop. Good cha, good stories, good memories.

And then there was Jagalchi Fish Market.

 Let’s just say that if I had been able to move beyond my shock, I may have appreciated the market for its value as an exhibit on marine life diversity. I honestly had never seen most of these species of fish and other wildlife. Too bad everything was dead or dying. Takes the life right out of wildlife.

Anyway, the market left us awestruck. Fishmongers and their ware stretched out endlessly along the harbour front. Quivering eels, squirming sea worms, sagging octopi, lifeless starfish, gleaming squid, clams launching themselves around in their buckets by snapping their shells open and closed, oysters breathing heavily in the shallow water… Along with fishmongering, many of the women working in the market also had tiny restaurants behind their counters. Pick a live fish, get it gutted, fry it up. Morgan even watched a live eel get skinned and gutted- and then it kept moving?! The nervous system is a freaky thing. I created a buffer zone for myself about 20 metres wide. No need to throw up six perfectly good cups of tea.

Once we were seafooded out, we went venturing along the docks. Barnacle-encrusted boats buoyed in the gentle waves while leathery fishermen headed out to sea. It was a strange, almost out-of-body, experience to be standing there in the midst of it all. Of course, I had been to the ocean before- Haiti, Costa Rica, the U.S., even Canada. But there was something completely bizarre about being near the ocean in Asia… where our bloody canned tuna comes from! Nori for all your sushi rolls! This is life! This is it- that crazy circle of life, butterfly effect, globalization, all this cause-effect everyone’s talking about. The poor man’s son who follows in his father’s footsteps to hunt whale to please the palate of an overpaid CEO of a monopoly we want eradicated from the face of the planet in order to restore the fine balance and put food on the plate of the poor man’s son.

Breathe. And then I filled up my lungs and it was just gulls and fishmongers again.

Despite having discovered so many nooks of interest where we could have spent countless hours, our vow to return to the mountain was not broken. Saturday was dedicated to just that. Now, if only we could find reasonably priced hiking boots. That turned out to be quite the joke. After browsing through umpteen hiking shops, we had become convinced of three things:

1.       Hiking is Korea’s national sport for middle-aged persons.

2.       You gotta hike in style. If it’s new, wear it. If you’ve worn it before, go shopping.

3.       If you are poor, or simply underpaid, don’t become a hiker.  

Morgan and I showed up at the base of the mountain in flip flops. At this point my mother is shaking her head. But, never fret, we had a plan: buy footgear closer to the mountain! Okay, it wasn’t a plan, but all the boots so far had proven to be too bloody expensive or made for elfin feet. Although buying our gear closer to the place of adventure seemed contrary to anything we’d ever learned about marketing, all went according to “plan”. There was a sale going on for those weird-looking hiking sandals you make fun of until you try them on, buy them, and tramp up a mountain in them. Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Those ugly, yet practical, squishy hiking sandals that physically fit 40-plus women wear… yes, with the elastic ties. Anyway, we each bought a pair and climbed aboard the bus that would take us to Mount Geumjeongsan.

To try and encapsulate the splendor we saw during our mountain hike seems futile, but I shall try nonetheless. Boulders the size of garbage trucks settled carefully against stones the size of your fist. A river running clear and fast over tree roots and eroded soil, creating steps more delicate and beautiful than any human could design. Lush trees and flowering bushes squeezing their delicate roots in amongst the rocks, taking hold, and thriving. The strangest of acorns with thorny flesh encasing them- causing me to wonder about their evolution over time. Mushrooms in all shapes and textures adorning rotting branches. My muscles burned as I challenged my body to generate that youthful bounce I once had when I went wandering in my woods back on the farm. Effortlessness was the aim, and although that wasn’t quite achieved, I did feel rejuvenated when I reached the peak. With strong winds blowing my hair into fine dreadlocks, Morgan and I exchanged satisfied grins. Korean countryside stretched out all around us, until we could see the distant outline of skyscrapers and the haze of smog.

Apparently, reaching the summit unleashed a certain insubordination within my soul, for I resolved to make the hike downhill a little more challenging. I think it’s called off-roading in some books. In mine, it’s called the best decision I could have made. Now, I know that there are reasons why people shouldn’t go off the trails (destroying wildlife, littering, building campfires, etc.), but I had no desire nor intention to do any such thing.  We drifted as noiselessly as possible, slipping through branches, hopping from stone to stone, grabbing trunks to steady our eager toes... Whenever anything struck us as exceptional, Morgan whipped out his mega-camera and snapped away at it. We stopped about every 3 minutes. At one point, Morgan and I were scrambling over a creek bed, when my Kaiser-Kid senses kicked in. I motioned for silence and felt my pulse accelerate. A fluttering. I recognized the sound. A large bird. A ground bird. We searched around and there it was: A beautiful pheasant about 40 feet from us. The connection I felt with my youth, with my life, with the very earth under my feet was tremendous.

Despite the joy our “off the beaten path” adventure brought, there was the downside of potentially getting lost. In the woods. On a mountain we weren’t familiar with. As shadows grew longer and the sunshine broke through ever-nearer to the forest floor, Morgan began to be concerned. Where were we? What way did we need to go? As he voiced these questions, I became aware of the silence. Heavy silence. I acknowledged that the silence went hand-in-hand with my quest to explore beyond the confines of the main path. Lost in Korea’s wildness, huh?

Now, it turned out that we weren’t completely off course, but that was no thanks to me. (See, I lost faith in my internal compass years ago when I followed deer into the woods behind our barn. I got so caught up in my escapade that I was suddenly beyond anything recognizable. The bedrock became more rugged, owl pellets littered the fallen leaves, and there seemed to be a murkiness hanging in the trees… all that was missing were some hobbits and fairies. Although I made it home eventually, I had felt mighty powerless against the enormity of nature. Some memories just don’t fade.) Luckily, Morgan’s internal compass is more reliable than mine and he reoriented us impressively quickly. It was quite a shock once we were back on the main trail, with middle-aged couples blasting music from their portable radios. Birds live in these woods? Really? Funny, I couldn’t hear them...

Oh Korea, you sure can be paradoxical.