let's have dinner.

Warning: Further reading will result in your awareness of my healthy soapbox stance. It has been formed over the years out of my own personal struggle that is currently non-existent, which means it's inevitably biased. It's not lovely life lessons, or humorous cultural encounters. You have been warned.

The city of Los Angeles recently voted on a moratorium that will, in the simplest terms, ban the building of any new fast food establishments in the Southern part of the city, and area that is known as both an area of lower income and also heavier on the scale. If you want to read more about it, go here. With the yearlong ban, city-council members are trying to shrink the size of south LA’s residents by shrinking their unhealthy options. It’s sweet that they care, really. But in my not-so-humble opinion, I think that path they are taking with what they are trying to attain is, well silly.

This is not to say that I don’t like the idea of less fast food joints lining our streets. Let me say, first and absolutely, I hate what fast food has become in America. If you haven’t yet, read Fast Food Nation. If you don’t like to read, watch the movie. I hate the way it has effected our cattle and chicken industry, the way that the agricultural business is tied with politics, and making money is seen as a priority over the way animals are treated, and how the environment is cared for. I hate that it’s cheap and easy to attain, and arguably addictive. I hate that eating one french fry makes me want to eat twenty seven. BUT I believe, in spite of all of this, taking care of ourselves is a decision we have to make for ourselves and has little to do with the fast food industries presence in our world. It is my CHOICE how many french fries I eat, regardless of what effect the grease has on me. Which is why, despite the fact that I want less fast food in America, I scoff at the idea that not building any more in an area for a year will really have an effect of the size of that areas citizens.

A precursor to taking care of your health and your weight is a belief that you are worth the effort it takes. I firmly believe that most of America’s struggle with obesity and weight related issues has more to do with how they feel about themselves on the inside than what they feel like that should look like on the outside. Diets are impossible to keep when they are trying to help fix our perception of ourselves. Our perception of ourselves must be addressed outside of what we eat. It’s tied together - of course - but our diet will not fix our emotional and psychological issues. When we feel good about ourselves, and see reason to live in abundance and not just existence, food choices become more natural, less forced, more healthy.

On the back of a package of Baked Lay’s Potato chips, you will find this quote:

“Fitness is a journey, not a destination. It must be continued for the rest of your lives.” -Dr. Kenneth Cooper

In other words, it’s not easy. It a process. There are hills. You will plummet, even after you feel like you have reached the top of the world. For those that struggle, it’s personal. Feeling like a failure is almost constant. Granted, there are those people in the world like my father that are missing some portion of an an emotional chip which has been replaced with a mega-metabolism, and can have a root-beer float each night, followed by a bag of Lay’s potato chips (not baked) which is guzzled down with three (not diet) sprites, and still maintain the physique of a life long runner who also happens to play tennis every morning. But for so many others, it’s a s-t-r-u-g-g-l-e, and finding balance is so much more than difficult.

That’s why I think the idea that banning the presence of any new fast food establishment in an area of a city that’s statistically more obese, and also poor, which means likely more stressed, and consequently (likely possessing) a lower morale in the area of life, with the belief that it will in some way decrease the size of their waistband is, well, absurd.

The argument is that it will make room for more healthy options to reach the area, as if the (typically more expensive) healthy eateries are just itching to make their way to one of the poorest areas of the city. Supporters say more options will help people make healthier choices. Bull shit. When Jared the Subway guy went into Subway on the beginning of his weight loss journey, there were always the options of cheese, a greasy meat ball sub, or the meat lovers special staring him in the face. It was the CHOICES he made that widdled away the fat from his waist.

And these healthy choices are currently available for the residents LA is trying to make skinny. Below are four different popular fast food chains that are likely present on one corner, everywhere in America. And listed below them are at least one healthy food item that’s available, for anyone to CHOOSE at any time.

McDonalds:

Premium Grilled Chicken Classic Sandwich:
calories: 420
total fat:10g
saturated fat: 2g
trans fat: 0g
fiber: 3g
protein: 32g

healthy salads on the menu: 4

Popeyes:

one mild chicken breast with skin and breading removed:
calories: 120
total fat: 2g
saturated fat: 1g
trans fat: 0g
protein: 24g

Sonic:

Grilled Chicken Wrap:
calories: 380
total fat: 11g
saturated fat: 3g
trans fat: 0g
fiber: 3g
protein: 29g

fat free golden italian dressing:
calories: 50
fat: 0g

healthy salads on the menu: 2

Chick-fil-a:

Chargrilled Chicken Sandwich:
calories: 270
total fat: 3g
saturated fat: 1g
trans fat: 0g
fiber: 4g
protein: 28g

In my not-so-humble-opinion, once again, I think the city of LA’s time and energy would be much more effective if it took the time to help educate it’s citizens as to why they should make healthier choices. Believe me, restriction does not lead to freedom. I walked that road for years, and neither lost a pound, nor found reason to keep trying.

I think it’s great for there to be less grease-ified establishments anywhere on the earth. But saying that restricting their presence will effect the citizens of a poor income neighborhood enough to convince them that they need to put forth the effort to completely change their lifestyle in order to attain a healthy weight is insulting. City-council members, don't use your pull to paint over the issue. Use it to scrape away the layers, and help them see why they should put forth the effort to make the sometimes difficult CHOICES that are already there.

reminders.

There will always be things to trigger the memories I am currently making here. I am nearly through the completion of all five seasons of the HBO series Six Feet Under. This show will always remind me of my time in the little apartment in South Korea. 

Playing currently is the music of Bon Iver. The album "For Emma, Forever ago" was given to me by a friend the day before I departed, and the lyrics and music of this group will serve as the soundtrack of my days here. It's an appropriate play on the evenings of darkness and candle light, when I am alone and wishing I wasn't. It fits the days of sunshine, like today, when I am choosing to be present and thankful. 

As of this past Friday, a few more memory triggers: Darth Vader, light sabers and all things Star Wars. I have managed to make it through twenty-five years on the continent of North America without having seen these movies. When my brother was home at Christmas watching television, I wandered in the living room, glanced at the thirty-five inch screen, and inquired as to what he was watching. He responded with a bewildered, "You DON'T know WHAT this IS?" I said no. His reply: Star Wars, Meredith. I feel some sense of patriotic guilt, even though these movies have nothing to do with American pride. How have I managed this? Firstly, I have a massive aversion to aliens. In other words, I HaTe them. They give me the creeps. I feel uncomfortable when forced to look at their odd shaped, leathery and/or disfigured bodies on screen. No, I don't even like E.T. They belong in outer space, and I wish they would all go home and take worms with them. But since South Korea is a time of firsts, and since I do like creatures (think Doby from Harry Potter), this seemed like the appropriate time conquer the six episode feat. Episode four has been finished, and besides a stomach churning alien filled bar scene, I am a fan. 

I am also a fan of cashmere. I had an encounter with it this weekend, and let's just say it's delightful in every way. I will never be able to hear the word or wear the sweater without thinking happy Korea thoughts.

The good news is that my time here is not done. I am only half-way there. I have more time to make more memories, and more reminders. And I am realizing that I have more control over my time here than I have chosen to realize. Saying it's just five weeks relegates my time here to a temporary existence, reminding me of only the things I need to get by. Think single small pot. But there is room for me to make a few things my own, and there is gratification when that happens. 

In light of that, I took the time this past weekend to purchase a table of my very own. The payment was merely the effort it took for me to carry it from the trash corner where it sat to the comfort of my little home. It didn't know if it would fit, or if it would be practical. I only knew that I liked the way it looked, and that I wanted it. So I carried, and cleaned, and rearranged, only to rearrange again. It finally found its home next to the refrigerator, against the wall, under candles and books and also Cedric the gnome.

When I come home now, after teaching or partaking in one of the reminders previously mentioned, I look over at my table, and think about how I have somewhere to sit and eat, or sit and write, and I am thankful. It feels like I brought a piece of me here, and I am affecting the place; it's not merely effecting me. And I am glad that the table that was once headed for the dump is instead here in this apartment, right where it should be, reminding me that I am too.  

eggs and vegetables and kindness.

I would like to dedicate this post to my Aunt Mae. Today is her birthday. She defines the saying, "beauty has no age limit," as she has always been beautiful to me. She taught me how to cook scrambled eggs, to always eat my vegetables, and showed me by her behavior what it means to be kind to all. 

Today I did not eat scrambled eggs when I woke, but if I would have, I would have added a little water, cooked them over a low heat, and stirred them constantly.

I did, however, eat my vegetables. I made some soup in my pot that was made for soup, and I added potatoes, broccoli, and asparagus. And it was delicious. 

I can't say if I was kind to all. I hope I was, as I am always hoping, especially with the loneliness factor, that all are kind to me. 

Happy Birthday, to one of the most beautiful, kind, and caring people I know. 

pot cooking.

Upon arrival in this grand country, I was granted the use of a few necessities. A bowl, plate, fork, knife and spoon...and also a pot, for all of my various cooking endeavors. Throughout my days here, I have stuck to using just this pot. If I want to cook two things at a time, I have to decide which would be better less hot, cook that first, clean the pot, and then cook its pairing. 

Do not pity me, however. I could easily purchase a pan or skillet at Lottemart. I was just there last night. Thirteen dollars and I could make a four course meal. But I don't want to dip into my ice cream fund to pay for the new pan, as the pot is a (free) loaner. And I have actually enjoyed the challenge of figuring the best way to make toast in a pot whose base is smaller than the slice of bread. When I wake up in the morning, I am not in want for anything material. 

So, in random order, here are a few of the things that have graced the base of my reddish pot that I am sure I will grow to miss once I return, well, home. 

Pancakes. When pairing them with eggs, the pancakes are made first. Choosing which to cook first was a difficult decision, but the outcome was delightful. The real challenge is the awkwardness of the spatula, and scooping it at the right angle in relation to the depth of the pan, so as to not fold the pancake in half instead of flip it. Folded pancakes are so disappointing to me. 

Scrambled eggs. Easy enough. Though greasing of the pot is essential, as they like to climb the sides. 

Cheese Omelette. The key here is to not use too many eggs. Otherwise it's more like a quiche that's not bendable.

Toast. As mentioned before, the pan is smaller than the bread, which makes for an awkward distribution of heat. The challenge is sliding it around in the appropriate times increments so as to get the most even browning of bread possible. 

Grilled cheese sandwich. Same challenge as toast, multiplied by two, with the added flip difficulty I talked about with the pancakes. 

Hot tea. No real trouble here. 

Curry Soup. When making this, the pot is actually in it's element. Everyone's happy.

 

pairings.

I really love to bake. I have an emotional attachment to my apron. I haven't had the heart to throw away my sifter and buy a new one, even though the wire mesh is no longer attached to the side of the cylinder. I should buy a share in an Irish company that imports unsalted butter to the US. I don't use a mixer because I like the idea of stirring batter the same way they did it before mixers were plugged into electricity. It is the opinion of some that my elitist attitude toward mixers is a little pretentious. Call me a pretentious baker, and then refuse one of my cookies. Go ahead. 

Since being here in Korea, I have not had the opportunity to, well, bake. I believe I have mentioned that dryers and ovens are a luxury. The dryer thing can be remedied, as I currently have my laundry hanging over every door or cabinet in my apartment. But I can't substitute the doors and cabinets for an oven. 

I can, however, substitute a toaster oven. I remember my friend Renee telling me she was going to try and use hers to bake a cheesecake. And my friend Shaya had one in college, if I remember right, and used it to bake cookies. I have personally never baked anything in a toaster oven, but when asked if I could, I said YES. 

I though I would have to substitute bittersweet chocolate for cocoa powder, as I had not been able to find cocoa powder here. As I am googling the conversion, the renter of the apartment where these magical brownies were going to be made let me know he actually had cocoa powder. He said it in such a casual way that I wasn't sure I heard him right. It was like gold to me, so I was expecting something more like, "OH MY! I HAVE COCOA POWDER in MY CABINET! PLENTY for YOU TO USE for YOUR BROWNIES!!! ISN'T that just simply FANTASTIC!". My reaction to his calm statement of possession more resembled the tone of the last sentence I typed. 

I did not have an apron, so I did get flour all over my pants, but I did have a baking helper. My friend Hyerin helped me make the batter. This was really pretty great because not only is she an excellent cracker of eggs, she had also never had fresh from the (toaster) oven, made from scratch, gooey delicious brownies. 

I didn't mention this earlier, but one of the other things in this world that I truly love are margaritas. They, too, are difficult to find in this part of the world, along with their sibling, Mexican food. While I was pseudo sifting the cocoa powder into the melted butter with a vegetable strainer, my friend Houston was pulsating the blender with the ingredients for homemade margaritas. 

The timer on the oven dings. The blender stops blending. There I sit, with an ice cold perfectly proportioned margarita in one hand, and a still-warm-from-the-oven brownie in the other, and, well, there is nothing left to say.

finer things.

I wish I had the ability to step out of a moment, and stay there at the same time, so I could see me in all of the ridiculous and mundane situations that I seem to find myself. If I could have looked at myself sitting alone in a Pizza Hut in South Korea today, where the only English words that are understood are pepperoni and pepsi max, and the majority of communication happens by the pointing of my finger, I am sure I would half cried laughing tears. It really was quite funny to me. So was the fact that I spent thirteen dollars today on a personal pan pizza. I didn't want to risk the addition of corn (why I went to a name I could trust), and I really wanted pizza.

My waitress seemed a bit perturbed that I did not want the shrimp pizza concoction with onions and green peppers that she pointed out to me. She let me know, with an exaggerated, forced, corporate sales initiative induced smile that it was "delicious". I didn't want to disappoint her, or Pizza Hut for that matter, but I don't like shrimp, and I really wanted pepperoni. 

The highlight of my meal (aside from the fresh from the oven cheesy crisp-but-not-too-crisp pepperoni pizza) came when the nice girl who was not my waitress wandered over and offered to refill my drink (with the trusty point). I know it was likely her job, but she did it with such a kind smile that it made me feel a little less out of place, and a little less alone during a solo late lunch. 

Drink refill girl: If you are single, I know a really nice man with an equally kind smile. He drives bus number twenty-two (one of them), and I think it could work. 

On my walk home, the sky was so incredible. It was stormy today...there was actual Oklahoma-like house shaking thunder! Anyway, that gave way to some really affecting clouds.

The clouds on my left were a beautiful tragic mix of blues, moody violets and deep grays, as if to remind those that took the time to look up from their painful distractions that they aren't the only ones. And if they took the time to look to their right, at the other side of the sky, they would have seen the brightness of the sun peaking its way through the clouds that covered the rest of the day...The intense sun rays against the odds of the clouds that were trying to keep them from getting through, reminding us that we have so damn much to be thankful for. 

And finally, a remnant from my trip to Seoul last weekend, a memorable and fun moment for me...I saw a table of three taking photos of each other, and then struggling with the "let's get us all in this one" picture. I offered to take one for them, and they were so appreciative that when I finished, and went back over to my table, they ventured my way and offered to take one of us - a "gift to take with" I think they said. 

goodbyes.

There is a time and a season for everything under the sun, they say. The time for my EC3 class ended today. This is the lowest level class I teach, and the class I have to raise my voice the most. It's also the class where I get to spend three hours with the infamous Ian.

I had to wrestle his vocabulary study sheet away from him today. He wasn't ready to stop studying, despite the fact that I was passing out the tests. I ripped the paper retrieving it from his grip. And then he growled at me. This all happened after I had to help him wrangle his head out of the sleeve area of his sleeveless shirt. He had managed, I am sure gracefully, to get it stuck there.

Getting the study guide away from him was difficult, as well as maintaining control, as I was as tickled by his obstinate way as I was frustrated by it. In the end I won, and he gave me the evil eyes.

Toward the end of class, as they were bagging their belongings to leave, I saw him over at his desk, sitting still for the first time in the entire three hour class period, writing a note and covering it with his arm. I smiled, and thought it was likely a hate letter to me given the tone of his previous growl. The boys around him giggled, looked over at me, and giggled some more.

On his way out he hands it to me, and tells me to close my eyes, while he writes something on the board. He told me to keep them closed, and he slipped away, not wanting to see my face again. The dry erase board had the words "I like you" scribbled nervously in his ten year old handwriting. The note said this:

Hi teacher! I'am Ian.
Many times you teach me.
Sometimes I'm very crazy.
I'm sorry. Today is last day.
I very sad (sad face) Meridith teacher.
Just short time but I can
learn from you so I was very happy
teacher I like you
From now on I promise you
about study. I don't play in class.
bye teacher bye teacher
If I can I will visit your house.

Ian, I like you too.

a longer stay.

I am falling in sync with my surroundings. I think if the expression "in sync" had a heart and a brain, it would likely loathe the boy band for giving it such a laughable existence.

When I take the bus now, I feel more like a traveling comrade among my fellow bus riders rather than an outsider. It's difficult no longer.

I am growing accustomed to the time alone. Do not confuse that with the statement "I am liking all of the time I get to spend alone". Still not. But it's not so taxing on me anymore. I am more comfortable and confident in the outer culture, so I am attempting to make a more interesting use of my time alone, and also be thankful for those days when I can just relax with no one to disappoint.

The more I am away from my old house and good friends, the more distant the memories of goodness are. I am sorry. I think it's the nature of the human brain, and a defense mechanism to be able to deal with the current lack of constant people. Since I feel a little farther away from what it is I really miss about being in Tulsa, it's easier to be here in South Korea.

I also feel like I am not done experiencing this place. I am not done seeing the places marked on maps, or the places that no one could point me to. On a walk last week through downtown, I passed an older lady with a healthy roundness, one that says she knows that her cooking is good. She was wearing an apron and mismatching clothes, hanging her laundry on the line outside of her house that looked more like a four walled garage. She had a look of comfort in her face, like she had never lived anywhere else but those few concrete walls. If I asked her if she owned a dryer she probably would have said "what the hell for?". I imagined her husband coming home from a long day of work, sitting down with soju and eating his wife's kimchi, with an asian pear for dessert. I am not done seeing this culture.

The school asked me a few weeks ago if I would be interested in staying until the twenty-second of August, for their summer classes. My response was that I would think about it, though in my head I knew the answer was no. Five weeks is enough. It will be time to go home.

I was sitting in my classroom on Monday recounting the blast that I had last weekend. It was fun and exciting, and a few days of many firsts for me. It was the first time I had actually ordered a steak at a restaurant. And also, the first time I had walked miles in search of pancakes. That was the moment I realized that I wasn't done here, and not quite ready to leave. The ease with which I am able to live my life here is kind of addictive. It would get old after a year. But right now, it's really easy to enjoy. I am faced everyday with things I have never seen before, and chances to go places I wouldn't have imagined myself. And I am able to afford it.

When my boss came to me that next hour and asked again if I was willing to stay, I said I would look into it. I had changed my mind.

My flight home now leaves the thirtieth of next month instead of the twenty-seventh of this. I will be happy on the thirtieth, as it will be good to be home. I will probably be ready. Until then, I am going to be happy here.

kids.

Children are curious.

They ask me questions.

They ask me where I am from.

I draw a map of the US for them with a dry eraser marker, and say "Oklahoma".

They ask me how old I am.

I tell them "a quarter of a century".

They ask me if I have a boyfriend.

I say "no".

They ask why.

I just shrug. I don't have anything to say.

a long batter story.

My love affair with pancakes started early. I would venture to say that they are a part of my earliest memories. Food seems to be the most consistent memory, the element that anchors the past days of my life. Looking at my childhood table, I can still see the glass bottle labeled Griffins, with stray syrup streaming down the side, which would end up on the plate, the table, and my hands. Breakfast for dinner was, and still is, a favorite. I think part of the appeal is the shroud of rebellion. It’s supposed to be breakfast, not dinner, which means that we are doing something wrong that feels so right. I also have memories of sitting at my grandma’s kitchen table, staring up at the intricate wallpaper with my hands resting on her plastic gingham table cloth, waiting with great anticipation for the circular goodness she was tending in the skillet, making with love, for me.

Somewhere close to the time when my age hit double digits, I began to take the pancake matter into my own hands. I was usually the first one up on Saturday mornings, watching Zac in all his high school glory rule Saved by the Bell. I remember watching my dad effortlessly pour the pancake batter onto a sizzling griddle, from a mix that only required the ability to read, pour and crack an egg. This would have been one of my earliest “I will just do it myself” affirmations. I realized there was no longer any point in waiting for an adult to get up and make breakfast, and at that moment, I decided to become an exceptional maker of pancakes. Seriously.

When I was a freshman in college, I was invited on a road trip to South Carolina, which, I felt at the time, officially entered me into the club of real adults, and simultaneously scared the boogers out of my mother. The redeeming news for my mother and me was that the caravan of these young college women I still call my friends spent the first night on the road at my aunt’s house, a mother too, and a good portion of the trip with Kari’s family, mom included. That was during my “I don’t eat red meat phase” which means my two most vivid food memories from the trip were one, me at Kari’s dinner table, picking all of the beef out of the lasagna and arranging it in an inconspicuous pile at the edge of my plate, and two, the oatmeal pancakes with orange syrup. That morning, my taste for pancakes became more refined. I scribbled the recipe down, and made them for my family shortly after arriving home.

When I was trying to lose weight at one of those times in my life when I was, I, like many Americans, turned to the weight loss guru from South Beach. What was the first thing that made me think, just maybe, I could do it? My discovery of his recipe for oatmeal pancakes. The unlimited amount of pistachios, lean chicken, and sugar-free jello were more depressing than helpful. A half of a cup of oatmeal, a fourth of a cup of cottage cheese, nutmeg, vanilla, cinnamon and four egg whites in a blender were my savior, for the ten days I was able to endure. I still make them from time to time, because if you like healthy stuff, they are more than edible (I sometimes add some vanilla yogurt and honey, and cut out one of the egg whites, if you are interested in making them).

When I lived in Florida, after a long work day in a foreign place with few friends, my evening ritual for about two weeks, until I realized it was unhealthy, was to make myself some homemade whole wheat pancakes covered in sugar free syrup (another phase) and sit on my butt. It was comfort that I was looking for, something familiar, and pancakes, once again, became my consolation. Eventually, after reading a book about the perils of dairy, I created a delicious recipe for soy pancakes. Regardless of their ingredient or intended purpose, pancakes were faithful, and chivalrous.

During Tulsa time, in my old house with the great front porch, some kind of pancake is usually consumed sometime in Saturday’s morning hours. A few days before I left for Korea, on a rainy Friday morning, Tonia whipped up a batch, using a buckwheat mix and left over liquid from a chalky fruit protein drink. They were delicious, pineapple chunks and all. Most Sunday mornings I can be found at the breakfast table of my parents, alongside my grandparents, and my mother’s animals, eating whole wheat pancakes prepared for me by my father. They used to be Shawnee Mills buttermilk pancakes, but it seems my parents pancake taste has refined over the years too, though the syrup is still Griffins.

In Korea, said pancakes are difficult to discover. There aren’t IHOPs and Village Inns lining every other street corner. Six days after my arrival, I emailed my friend Chris, and requested that she eat some pancakes for me, as they were the unattainable desirable that I couldn’t get loose from my brain. So one would understand the joy in my heart a few weekends ago when my friend sent me some words over the internet with the phrase “pancakes? saturday?” at the close of the email. My response was that I would not get excited until they were actually in a stack in front of me, because if it didn’t happen, I was not sure if I could deal with the disappointment. It happened, stack and all, with almonds, an eight dollar bottle of ready whip, and ten dollar bottle of real maple syrup.

Because of our history and their unyielding presence in my life, I feel a sort of distinguished kin-ship with flapjacks. They have served me well, taught me much, and in one humble form or another, proved to be unwavering. This is why today’s endeavor that took place on the streets of Seoul was not just a trip to find a good country breakfast. It was a journey. And due to the fact that we didn’t know where the Butterfinger Pancakes (not the candy bar, the dairy product) was actually located, and were following directions written by someone with pancake batter for brains, it became more like a quixotic pilgrimage. We were so, so hungry. I mean really hungry. In order to save myself for what was ahead, I decided to wait and eat until I had the good stuff. This meant that though I woke up at eight, I intentionally consumed only four cherries and six ounces of water before leaving the house two and a half hours later. I also was not planning on getting lost. But lost is what we got, and also nowhere for a really long time. After a subway ride, and then heading one direction in order to turn right around and head the opposite, multiple trips to the same street and multiple attempts at asking for directions, and also the passing of an hour and a half, we find this century’s savior, access to the internet, and eventually, our destination. The result? A conquering sense of bliss.

There was a wait of fifty minutes. We would have waited longer. The menu was thorough and beautiful, on a laminated legal sized menu of brown craft paper, with bent corners and daring pancake concoctions (stuffed mozzarella and tomato, anyone?) and endless breakfast options, covering both sides of the page. I decided on the blueberry, after reading the “none of our fruits are canned” disclaimer at the bottom. One could find irony in the fact that they, as relayed to me by the kind Korean waitress, “run out of blueberry”. I ate, with a noble amount of devotion to the cause, every single bite and scrap and crumb of the harvest grain and nut pancakes I had chosen.

I sat back in the chair of our high top table, looking at the sleek interior of the pancake house, and at the empty plates of my equally stuffed friends, and I was thankful to have people in my life that also get what is so very great about pancakes, as it somehow validates my history. I was even more thankful that they did not yield when faced with obstacles, like hunger and confusion, but endured and pressed on, like true pancake knights.

liquidity.

I was thinking a minute ago that this would be a cool thing to write about. Now I am thinking I am bored and it's actually not worth the time it will take to write. But for most writers there is crap amongst the good stuff, so there you go. Proceed to find potential crap. 

I do not wear a watch. I suppose knowing what time it is has its benefits, but the ones I buy usually break, and when I take them off I don't miss them, which begged the question, "what's the point?"

I was thinking today that it would be fun, based on the tendency of people to form behavioral patterns in their life, to tell time based on something arbitrary and less dependable than a watch. 

Here in Korea America, the hours of my day can be segmented into which liquid I am drinking. 

Water doesn't count, as it's consumed at all times. It's a constant, the half hour that exists within every hour of our days.

In the mornings, existing anywhere from nine am to eleven, I usually have bran flakes, which means there is usually some kind of liquid allowing the flakes to float. In the beginning it was black bean milk, and lately it's been vegetable milk, both delicious despite how they sound. Yesterday, I didn't have enough milk to cereal ratio, so the flakes did not float. It was more like me chewing on dry bran flakes that had come in brief contact with the ounce of vegetable milk that barely covered the bottom of my bowl. It was more of a tease, for me and the flakes, but I was hungry, so I dealt. 

My breakfast is paired with juice, and I usually skip the glass, as I am the only one. 

Around three in the afternoon, when I wander over to second floor of the building my school resides, I am usually carrying a plastic container filled with a pre-packaged latte or iced coffee. It's my first coffee based beverage of the day, and though it's usually sweet, I search with each sip for that present but hidden coffee flavor. 

After work, between the hours of seven-thirty pm and eleven pm, it's ice cream, which always has liquid potential, depending on temperature. 

After that, definitely in the darkness, sometimes a beer. 

When I have actual coffee, it's sporadic and usually later in the evening, because I am outside of the coffee-less enclave of my current community, and it's findable. 

I am turning my world upside down today, liquids and all. Not only did I wake, without a watch, clock or alarm, at six-fifty-five am, I didn't go back to sleep. I was up by seven, and then I went on a walk. I decided to stop by Sun-Mart on my way back to pick up a small container of milk for the bran flakes that remained in the cereal box, as I didn't want to repeat yesterday mornings cereal incident. I got the milk, AND an iced-latte, in the MORNING. It threw me off. I did this once last week too, in the evening, but that evening it was paired with donuts which seemed to overshadow the change in behavior. Then I came home, made my cereal, AND an instant cup of coffee. 

On my walk this morning, there were a few men sitting outside that the tables of GS Mart. One was drinking water. The other a can of beer, at eight in the morning. I don't think I will take my fluid change in behavior to that level. 

what is normal?

I found myself on top of a mountain last night. Well, maybe not a mountain. More like a big hill. It rests somewhere in the middle of this city, and separates me from most of the places I go. I usually walk around it, but last night, we hiked through it, and I had one of those unexpected and lovely breathtaking sort of moments in life that don't come often enough. I hadn't realized that we had reached the very top, so I was still looking down, at the dirt. When I glanced up, I saw all of the neon lights of the city that are rather obnoxious close up, but are rather beautiful from far away. I don't think the loss of breath was because of the view itself, but the unexpectedness of it. I peruse through concrete streets each day, and I hear buses braking or horns honking or the obnoxious sound that the little girls shoes that live above me make when they tear down the steps outside of my apartment. I never hear cicadas, or crickets, or the wind blowing the trees. I rarely hear the sound of my feet hitting dirt, or see the moon encapsulated by trees instead of buildings. The loss of breath came from the contrast I was able to experience in such a short amount of time. One minute I am eating kimbap in a building next to another building, and the next minute I am encompassed by nature overlooking the overdone manmade landscape that is more normal to me than the things of the earth. 

Today I went on another adventure, through streets and communities I had yet to discover thus far. After taking a left, and then another, I found the good stuff: A rather attractive Korean man selling fish on an outdoor market, sitting next to a man with a booth selling used bicycles he had repaired himself...they were across from a donut vender, that was next to a vegetable vender selling everything including eggplant. I took it all in, including the stares, and continued on passed the seven eleven with a Hello Kitty decal in the window, next to an overweight worn out old man sitting on a plastic green chair in the humidity and sunshine, taking a nap.

Near home, I had one of those moments of comfort, brought on by a familiar face. I was pretty sure that I was headed in the right direction up to this point, but with me, one can never be sure. I started to see things familiar, which gave me the "I am almost home" feeling, something that's fleeting when you are living temporarily in a foreign country. There were so many kids all around, as I live next to a middle school, and I usually look to see if  recognize any of the students as my own, and hadn't until today. I glance to my left, at three girls walking alongside each other. I look a little closer, as I don't have my glasses on, and I wave, at Rachel, one of my smarter kids (she studies English for a year in Australia) and she waved back, saying, "Hi Meredith." My next few steps were more like glides. 

class-time.

The boss man at the school asked me today if I would like to come back for the winter term. He showed me the calendar on his cell phone, pointing to the twenty-fourth of November. He said I am a good teacher and that he likes "my style". I think he just likes the fact that I get to work early.

What he does not know is that the main reason I get here early is to have a few minutes of silence and oasis with my ipod, iced coffee, and some kind of chocolaty goodness. There is preparation for class happening somewhere in there, but my motives for early arrival are not entirely pure. I learned today, while sitting in the dark listening to Ryan Adams and sipping my iced a mericano that came pre-sweetened against my better preference, that Snickers are delicious in Korea too.

It's four-fifteen and I get to start class in fifteen minutes. I have the sound bytes ready for the lesson, I have gone over the material, and now I just sit here typing, observing the students that arrived early, looking forward to the fact that I will be done with my work day at seven-thirty this evening. Anna just sneezed and I held back the urge to tell her "bless you". It looks like I may come home a different person, cultured, if you will.

*post posting edit: My response to the boss man was, "I will think about it," and I said it while pointing at my head. That's currently, among other things, what I am doing. Thinking about it,I mean, not pointing at my head. 

the goings (and not goings) on.

I am realizing that not all of my posts must have clear and defined direction as some of you, namely family, just like knowing what I am up to. 

Here are some things I am been doing, not doing, and thinking about over the past few days. 

The first on the list would fit into the category of "not doing". The depth of my laziness over the past few days has been, well, too deep to accurately measure. I think part of my last "thankful" post was an attempted justification to myself that my inactivity is OK. Waking up at ten, browsing the web, reading, napping for too long, and then watching an hour long episode of a new favorite old TV show was the routine Monday and Tuesday. I decided tonight that indeed that behavior was OK, for those two days. There's something really wonderful in knowing I can sleep, and continue to sleep, knowing there is NOWHERE I have to me. In contrast, there is also something really wonderful about being productive on a day when there is in fact NOTHING I have to do. So tomorrow, productive I shall be, and utterly lazy no longer.

As I did actually have to go to work yesterday at three in the afternoon, this section would fit into the category of "doing". What I did was teach. Or rather, manage chaos. I am to the point where I don't have to call roll anymore, as I can match my students faces with their names. I took attendance without their knowledge, falling into a pool of disappointment toward the end. Everyone there had been marked present, the bell had rang, but one very important desk remained empty. With a puppy dog kind of sad look on my face, I glance up and ask my students where Ian is. PK tried to inform me, with the amount of English he knows, that they had a new bus driver that drove right past Ian's house, without stopping. I leave the mark in the absent box on the computer screen, and I hit save. He barges in with a big goofy smile on his face while I am handing out the review tests, takes his seat in the middle of the room, and I smile. 

Why do I think this kid is so great? He was wearing a tank top, and while raising his hand, he requests that I not look at his under arm area. Each time he raised his hand after that, he held his ID card up over the area he wanted to conceal. And he wasn't trying to be funny. He was serious, which made it so very funny. 

Today, I taught James during my second teaching hour. There are usually six or so kids in that class, but because of public school testing, English class became less of a priority, so I only had one student. He is probably one of the smartest kids I have the opportunity to teach, which made for a fun three hours. At one point I had to explain to him the word flutter, as in, a fluttering heart. It was in the context of that person walking into a room that makes your heart flutter, and the feeling that follows...as if there is actually a very small bird stuck inside the walls of your stomach, flapping its wings, and all of the fluid from your brain has left its home in your head to join the bird in your abdomen, rendering you nearly incapable of forming coherent and sensible sentences; all the while, it's growing more and more difficult for you to breathe. What is the best way, I ask, to describe that feeling in understandable English to a third grader whose first language is Korean? Hmm.

Dolsat Bibimbap = my favorite Korean dish thus far. When I crave something here, other than the juicy cheeseburger I have yet to attain, it's usually this. A website, forwarded to me by my seasoned American living in Korea buddy, describes it as Rice in a hot bowl covered with various veggies (carrots, mountain weeds, cucumbers, sprouts, etc.), red chili paste, and topped with a fried egg. It's so delicious...the spiciness and combination of textures and flavors. This yumminess in a bowl is attained from one of Korea's Kimbap restaurants...most with an orange sign outside, and a hole in the wall type of feel, serving tasty (and inexpensive) hot Korean food. Up until last night, I had eaten the contents of the sizzling bowl in good company, which means I had an American eating alongside me, and ordering for me. The term restaurant is a little extravagant, as it's really just a four walls and a roof with small wooden stools lined along the few tables there are in the simple mirrored room. Last night, I wanted Dolsat Bibimbap, and I had only myself to eat with. This meant I would have to venture into unknown terrain, and put my foreigner self in a small room, without a foreigner buffer friend, and order, in Korean, a dish that I would eat alone, surrounded by mirrors and non-English speaking Koreans who would probably wonder why in the world I was there. But I really wanted Dolsat Bibimbap, so I did it, and my stomach thanked me. 

a change of heart.

I decided today...to be thankful.

I have mentioned the hours I spend alone, and though there is the alone factor floating around in that scenario, there is also the - I have so much time on my hands to do things I enjoy doing - factor. And when I put forth effort to float to the outer edges of the scenario I find myself in, there is much to be thankful for.

There are devoted and involved mothers of four children, all over the world, dreaming of just a moment of solitude, and caregivers of loved ones always at someone else's beck and call...happy to give, but worn ragged. There are students, everywhere and all around me, studying books that are required when what they would really like to do is get lost in a novel of their choosing. And here I am, in a dream-like situation, getting paid to experience a foreign culture that is chalked full of life changing experiences without having to make a life changing commitment, for a mere and at the very worst, twenty-four hours of work a week.

I would have paid an entire pay-check, during the season of two jobs, to place myself in the midst of so much solitude.

I pray that there is a day when I will be chasing four or so little kiddos around a home full of life and love, looking with fondness upon those hours I spent that summer in that apartment on the corner in a foreign country with so very much time to just be, and think, about all that I have to look forward to, and be thankful for.

And now, thankfully, time to get lost in a good book, a novel of my choosing.

the long, long way around.

Some conversational Korean would have been handy today.

I waited at the stop for bus number three, with the understanding that it was headed down town, as they all supposedly do. It arrived and I jumped on with a false sense of confidence, listening intently to my IPod, as it was not necessary to hear the announcement of where I was headed, given that it was said in Korean.

After a forty minute walk in the grotesquely hot cloudless muggy summer day, I was glad to be sitting in the cool, and taking in some sights of Cheonan I had yet to see, in culturally ignorant bliss. I began to notice early on that we were taking lefts when we should have been making rights, but passengers were still getting on, including a mom and her three sons, so I reasoned that bus number three just takes the long way around.

It turns out that I was taking the long way around, and the reason that the smallest of the sons semi-scowled at the driver when he began to tease him was because the driver was his father, the woman who hopped on was his wife, and this particular bus was done with its work day. I was on a route headed nowhere spending family time with a family I didn't know. The father tried to explain to me that he was headed home for the day..."done", and I tried to explain to him that I was really confused. I was the stupid foreigner.

The oldest son attempted translation, as he knew more English than the other members of his family, while I attempted to be clear about where I had wanted to be. With kindness, understood misunderstanding, and good intention, my former driver and current the man of the house passed me off to the driver of bus twenty-two.

My new drivers' smile of confidence was encouraging, while his attempt to re-communicate to me in Korean that which I thought had been confirmed made me feel contrastingly uneasy. I stayed, and sat, as I had no idea where I was.

I sat, as we passed by buildings and corners I had never seen before. I sat, as more passengers piled on, from stops along to way to wherever were going. I sat as they piled off. I sat, hope hope hoping that bus twenty-two would eventually end up down town.

At a stoplight, while watching people get off the bus, I had a look of concern on my face, and my new bus driver could tell. He tried to communicate to me without words that my stop is just ahead, as if to say, in a divine-like manner, "don't worry, you're going the right direction, and you're almost there."

We turned a corner, I smiled, and sighed in relief when I saw "Heart of the Flower, a huge public artwork depicting seven colorful giant flowers pierced by a gigantic needle," which is also a clear landmark confirming that I am, after an hour, some family time, two bus rides, and a thorough tour of Cheonan, finally where I am supposed to be.

Thank you driver of bus number twenty-two, for the ride, and for your kind, innate, and genuinely reassuring nature. You made the trip worth it.

Not enough to take the trip again, however. I took a taxi home.

happy (I)ndependence day.

My heart skipped a little at two this afternoon. At two this afternoon, it was midnight where all of you are, my friends and family and readers. Twelve AM usually means it's the next day, and in this case, the fourth of July. For some dorkish nostalgic reason, I was looking forward to the moment when it was our nations birthday all together. So, happy Independence Day. I think this is my first one in another country, and the fact that the locals in the school's office I just talked to didn't seem near as excited with today's significance as me was a blatant reminder that I am not in the USA. And the fact that two of the three of them had no idea what I was saying. That was a reminder too.

I walked back to my apartment in a blue shirt and blue jeans, sipping my second coke out of a glass bottle, with the vintage red and white logo. I felt so patriotic.

My celebration will consist of dinner and a movie, a very American thing to do these days. The twist is that dinner will be Italian food consumed in Korea, and the movie will have Korean subtitles.

The fitting aspect of my situation would be the fact that this trip over the sea was likely made with the subconscious intention of exerting my very own independence. The adventure was a draw, of course. Reuniting in good company with a good friend was a big part. The money had much appeal as well. But underneath, knowing myself, a good portion of this journey was the chance to prove that in my independence, I could do it. I could relinquish ties to job, and exert my independence from the eight-to-five status quo. I could walk away from the comfort and stability of my beautiful life in Tulsa and make it for a few weeks in a place that I am barely known nor understood. I wanted to put ground and gravel to the statement, "I really like to travel," and in my independence, make sure the world knows that it's more than a statement. I am not sure if that's healthy or a positive thing, but it's truth, and I am a lover of truth. It also makes me think that being in a foreign country, exerting my independence, is a fitting place to be on this particular fourth of July.

Cheers.

highlights.

Do you remember the highlights magazines we used to have when we were little? I do. And I remember loving them.

I go to work fairly early. Earlier than most, I would say. On my training plan at Starbucks, dealing with ambiguity was not my strong point. I like being prepared, even though I am a procrastinator. As a procrastinator, I simply do my preparation at the last minute. But it always gets done, in the wee hours of the morning if necessary. This disdain for misunderstanding and unpreparedness is what gets me to the seat at my desk while the rest of my building is empty. I sit there with my IPod turned up loud, and I go over the material we are going over in class. I make sure I understand the answers so that I can better explain them to my students. And each day, I am usually doing this without the lights turned on. I realized today, when Gyselle popped in and turned my lights on for me a few minutes before class, that this actually happens every day. Someone other than myself flips the switch for me. Upon entrance of my classroom, it does not dawn on me to turn on the lights. I am nose deep in a book, and all of a sudden, there is light because someone else thought to turn it on.

Today, on my run-slash-walk, I wore a shirt given to me by my friend Carly. It says something about South Korea having Seoul...get it? While wearing this shirt, I passed a Korean women with a shirt proclaiming her love for New York. I chuckled at the juxtaposition.

Same walk, same day, I happened to be exploring previously un-entered streets. One of the businesses had some shrubbery planted in pots to add to the "curb appeal" of the place, as my mom would say. There was a peculiar looking flowered plant that grabbed my attention. I slowed, leaned, and realized that it looked peculiar because it was fake. There were fake flowered plants stuck in the dirt pretending to live amongst living plants. I wondered why.

A girl in my class, who is slightly shy and sweet as ever, lost a tooth today. I watched her as she came up to the desk to retrieve more tissue, so as to hinder the excessive bleeding, and I began to remember the days when I did in fact read highlights magazine, and fiddle with loose teeth in hopes that they would finally come out.

Today, as a woman of twenty-five (not eighty-six as some of the boys in my class have assumed) I enjoy planting real flowers, I am appreciative when someone flips the light switch for me, I still miss highlights, but would certainly not go back to the losing of teeth just to attain a dollar from the tooth fairy.

losing the gills.

I feel as though I am making progress. There are ways in which this fish is adjusting to living on land.

I am getting used to the stares. At first they frightened me. Then they pulled at a chord of frustration. Next came confusion. And now they simply elicit a smile.

I am getting used to the sound of Korean words coming out of my mouth. On Monday, I spoke my first word of the day at around three in the afternoon, and it was the Korean phrase for thank you. I said it to the kind lady at the convenience store on the corner that I pass through most afternoons on my way to work. At first, I felt so silly trying to communicate anything in another language. With time, and repetition, I am getting the hang of it.

I am getting used to the fact that my bathroom floor is also the floor of my shower. There is no separation, but simply a drain at what is intended to be the lowest point of the arranged tile. The angle isn’t quite right, as there is standing water in a few key spots if I don’t squidgy it down the drain...but for the most part, it no longer feels like a strange practice. I even managed to get the temperature and water pressure in perfect balance for the shower that just washed the smell from my glorious, frustration releasing run.

But.


There are things I not getting the hang of. Well, one in particular. Aloneness. Lack of conversation. No one to recite and recount my days to. No one to laugh at my cultural mishaps with. In the mornings, when I make an egg, I am usually wishing I had someone to make egg number two for. When I get the urge to leave the house and go for a walk, I am usually wishing there was someone to walk with.

I have been told by seasoned foreigners that I will get used to it. Adjustment will come. But that seems like such an arbitrary thing to have to adjust to. Who in the hell wants to put forth effort into spending excessive and consecutive hours alone? Who wants to get used to perusing through their days without even opening their mouths, other than monks? I have no desire to become a nun.

There are times when I am with people, and moments I am thankful for. I had an “oh so enjoyable weekend” in Seoul a few days ago, with fantastic company to boot. On Monday, after getting released from class early, I enjoyed dinner with one of my best friends currently living. Today, I very much enjoyed my student Ian’s sense of humor. He is one of those kids that pays attention and follows along and also gets in trouble for getting out of his seat and talking more than anyone else in the class. Those kids tend to be my favorites, and I enjoyed conversing with him in his broken english. But my Seoul buddies have lives, and rescuing me from my aloneness would be way too taxing. I don’t think their bosses would understand them leaving class in the middle of the day simply because I had not had the chance to speak to anyone in English, and I don’t like being a liability. I am also pretty sure Ian’s mother would worry if he wasn’t home for dinner.

I also realize that this has as much to do with this fishes heart as it does the dry land she is trying to maneuver through, and after twenty-five years of being alone at the very end of the day, she has yet to find adequate water supply.

All I know how to do in this moment is put some presentable clothes on, walk out of the door to Sun Mart, pick out a new flavor of ice cream, and say “thank you” in broken Korean.

un-cultural changes.

A day that includes twelve miles of walking is not abnormal behavior, nor is it abnormal in my head. I always have the option of taking the bus. Many people do. And I have taken it in the rain, so I know how. But I usually choose to walk.

I drank coke out of a glass bottle today. I never drink Coca-Cola. I have not drank it out of a glass bottle since the time in my life when jellies protected my feet. But something about it just felt right.

I bought a single beer at the convenience store Sunday night. I rarely drink beer, the exception being its pairing with the three dollar burger, both consumed Wednesdays in Tulsa. It is even less often that I buy beer at a store, unless we are having a party at the house with the enviable front porch. And never a single bottle for myself. But I hand a hankering, so Sunday evening I could be found in my little box, watching episode seven of Six Feet Under, sipping a cold one. I subsequently learned that I do not particularly favor Heineken. And don't worry dad. I am still not an alcoholic. I barely finished one.

I walked to McDonalds this morning to get an egg, sausage, and cheese McMuffin. I never go to McDonalds. I am not being pious. It's just not a part of my life, and after reading "Fast Food Nation", I felt like I had, for the most part, closed the McDonalds chapter. But this morning I woke after just six hours of sleep to take a twenty minute walk to the home of the golden arches, and I was not ashamed. I sat outside on the sidewalk at a table with an umbrella, munching on the McMuffin, nibbling on the oval shaped hash brown, slurping the orange juice, and sipping Italian LaVazza coffee, (made of thirty percent robusta coffee beans, which are much higher in caffeine), while I watched a number of Koreans begin their day.

I eat MUCH more ice cream here, in the form of cones, milk shakes, and bars...flavors including, but not limited to, green tea ice cream, crunch, cookies and creme...so delicious. I consume it maybe once a month in the states. Here, it's practically nightly.

I often work three hours a day, getting paid too much money for six, in contrast to the eight I usually work in Tulsa.

I go to bed really late. Sometimes at three in the morning. And that doesn't feel weird.

I burn candles. I am actually sitting in a dark room right now, with light from only green tea lights. and Baxter. Don't worry mom. I won't fall asleep with them burning.

I bought grape juice at the store instead of orange. I usually buy orange at home. But I love grape juice, and I always have. I never think of buying it in Tulsa. But something grabbed at me when I passed it, and so I grabbed at it. It is such a nice pairing to my morning bowl of cereal.

Making a decision to jolt myself out of the norm of my comfort zone and into the abnormal of a foreign country has helped open my mind in the little ways too. Though these little changes may seem insignificant, they remind me to rethink the way I do things, and not be afraid to say yes when someone asks me if I want a Coca-cola out of a glass bottle. They challenge me to walk out of my box, open my mind, and pay attention to things that grab at me, things that routine, habit, or history frequently enable me to ignore. And that's the hidden pro of these exceptionally enjoyable un-cultural changes.