stuff.

I have heard of culture shock...Coming home and feeling overwhelmed by excess or choices or people. I felt it, as soon as I walked into my bedroom. 

My apartment was close to the size of my bedroom here, greatly resembling the four walls I am currently surrounded by, but it was filled with the bare minimum. I had little more than what I needed. When I got home, set my luggage down, and looked around, I started to feel sick to my stomach. 

Six hours later, I have depleted three-fourths of the clothes in my closet, cut the total number of shoes in half, gathered four bags of books to donate, and filled a thirty gallon trash bag full of junk I didn't even need before I left. 

My ankles are swollen, my eyes are tired, my feet hurt, but I feel lighter than ever. 

a goodbye of sorts.

I debated on doing a "final post from Korea", as it's a bit cliche. And I don't necessarily want people to think I am cliche. 

But if I have learned anything from being here in Korea, it's the freedom in making choices regardless of the judgement of others. 

So there you go. It's my last post from The Land of the Morning Calm. It's cliche. And I am doing it anyway. 

This shall be a few long sentence fragments, because, again, I want to, regardless of the judgement of others, and also, because I am no longer an English teacher...

The gardens that line the streets, the pungent smells, a deeper understanding of the commonality of human beings regardless of surface differences, and the image of chili peppers drying on a piece of cardboard in the middle of the street. A larger circle of friends and acquaintances that I am hoping will provide a deeper character base for any of the books I plan to write in my lifetime, more confidence to just do it (whatever it may be), a love of Korean food, of the spice and the flavor and the freshness...And the way it will effect my cooking for years to come...a more open mind, and a deeper sense of self, more strength in already existing friendships, and a new layer to add to the lens that I view my life from.

Here is to change, and leaving what has become familiar to return to that which was. To culture shock and jet lag and longing that comes from exposing oneself to something or someplace wonderful, and then abruptly walking away. 

I sometimes, or rather, I often wonder what it is I am doing with my life. I think that I am living it. 

seeing.

I am a loser...Of things. I was infamous among my high school friends for my talent. It drove my mother crazy. Purses in restaurants, wallets in waiting rooms, keys in doors, and most ardently and recently, glasses, wherever I am not. 

Before coming, I had bought a new pair. They were blue and lovely, and now they are in a store's lost and found box, somewhere in Seoul. I was told that glasses were fairly cheap here, and if I had my prescription, perhaps I could attain some before I left. 

My mom emailed me the numbers. I had what I needed. But there was the unsettled apprehension of the unknown...what if the guy at the counter doesn't speak English? What if the prescription is different here than there? What if I try, and in the process, make a fool of myself? And therein lies the adventure. 

It's a strange thing, fear coupled with excitement. Things that intimidate also provide a thrill. And all this from simply going to buy a pair of spectacles. 

I knew of a place on a corner on a street. I walked there, glanced in, and walked on past. Then I hesitated. "Just do it Meredith!" I told myself. The gentleman inside looked kind, so I turned around, and struggled through the clean glass doors. I acted a little foolish, but he was so kind, and greeted me with a, "can I help you?". Sigh. Yes. Yes you can. 

I showed him my prescription that I had scribbled down, rather neatly, on a little notepad, commenting that I wasn't sure if it was the same here as elsewhere. I am not sure if he got what I was saying, though I think he recognized the apprehension in my voice, and he quickly assured me that it could be done. Sigh, again. 

I shopped for frames, and he offered me a cold fruity drink. I put on a pair, and he nodded in approval or dismay...saying things like..."too small," or "red is better," or saying nothing at all, simply and kindly shaking his head no.

I found two that I liked, whose prices were right. I decided on a basic pair, and also, a pair of prescription sunglasses, something that would add a layer of safety to both my life and the lives my my fellow car drivers. 

He took my empty fruity glass bottle, and filled out the form. I think I said thank you and kamsamnida sixty times. He said my sunglasses would be ready Friday, and my spectacles would be ready in twenty minutes. I sat, waited, and read. Twenty minutes later, I hear, "Miss Meredith," and he smiles, letting me know he's finished. 

When I left, my picture of life was a little clearer than it was before I walked in the little shop on the corner on the street.

thinking, back.

After returning from a fun-filled trip to Seoul, the end is beginning to kick in. 

People were talking about returning to work. I am done. My ticket has been printed off. There is an empty suitcase waiting to be filled. Instead of filling it, I have simply strewn its eventual contents about, as if getting everything out lets me know where everything officially is. I officially created a disaster of my apartment. I wasn't in the mood to organize it all, as my mind was feeling disorganized. My preference for continuity prevented me from taking responsible action, and instead, I left everything where it didn't go, and started to put together my miniature scrapbook. This made me feel nostalgic, and also, the fact that it's Sunday. I usually feel more nostalgic on Sundays. And then, after not finishing the arts and craft project, I decided go for a run, which meant that I had to put on the proper attire. Oh, but not until I upload photos onto my web gallery, I told myself. That should come first. And then the run. 

Post run, and on the edge of a disastrous mess, I am still feeling nostalgic. Can you guess what comes next? A Korean list-ish of a few of the things here I have come to take for granted from the past sixty-seven days of my life. The number sixty-seven does no justice to it's contents. And don't confuse it with a list of things I will miss. I am reevaluating the concept of miss, and therefore, don't feel confident giving the list-ish that label.

Time. I have so very much of it. Time to run, and read, and write, and read some more. Time to catch up with myself. 

The feeling of confidence in a long walk home, and not being talked out of the "impractical" when there is a bus and a taxi, both to my left, eager to get me wherever. 

Getting paid too much for doing very little. I have begun to calculate how many hours of work at home it would take me to acquire my most recent purchases. It's very sadly. 

An abundance of Korean food. There was a Chik-fil-a discussion this weekend, and it was mentioned by someone other than myself that I will have access to that in a matter of days. The funny thing? I was thinking about how the discussers would have the very same kind of access to the Korean food I have come to love, and take for granted. 

Being somewhere, and not somewhere else. I have managed to ignore the fact, for the majority of the latter grouping of days, that I have to leave. This has given me a false sense of ease, and comfortability. I am about to embark on yet another season, in such a short amount of time, that is full of nothing at all concrete. It's mostly sand, and mud, and some muddy water. 

Hence the disorganized state of my head and room and, well, life; continuity. 

my favorite pooch...

petey.

the wheels on the bus go round and round.

I would just like to make it known that this semi-newbie helped an official newbie figure out the proper way to take a bus last night.

We all remember Meredith's experience with bus number three that turned into her experience with bus number twenty-two, don't we?

How on earth can I be trusted to show someone else!?

Well, I was trusted. So there.

That's what you call growth, friends and foes.

And also, I think, a full circle moment. Full circle trips, however, should be avoided on buses.

myself and change | myself changing.

Though I know I will be welcome home with open arms, the feeling of returning is a bit foggy.

I have been here long enough to have distanced myself from what I left...not on purpose, but as a necessary means of survival. I have missed out on summer time there, and key changes that have taken place without asking my permission, both grand and not so. One of my roommates might have found a boy, my boss is gone, I quit my job and must find a new one, Mary is moving out after September, Tonia is traveling the country, and also quit her job. I won't have a home after October, I missed my brother's trip home, and time with my nephew that the rest of my family was able to experience. Haydyn is now talking up a storm, and email was not sufficient in keeping me up to date with the daily nuances of the people there I love.

I have changed since being here. There are more things I know, more that I don't know, opinions that have been altered, and beliefs that have been adjusted. I would like to think I am a little stronger, but perhaps that's wishful. I have gotten used to talking less, which is not a bad thing, just a true thing. I have adjusted to my life here, and this place has become comfortable for me. There are things that I shuddered at the thought of doing when I arrived, and can now do with ease and confidence. I enjoy my time alone, reading and writing, and just being. I enjoy the people I have been able to connect with, and will miss those I am leaving behind.

Missing, however, is a reality of life, no matter the side of the continent I am on.

These are all just characteristics of the jumbled feeling going on inside of me. During the flight home, I will arrive in multiple states of which I have no interest in being. They will be true places of limbo, a real version of me being dangled between two worlds I have come to love, one of which I am going to, and one I am leaving behind. The very act of me having left the one means it will never be what it was to me. The porch is still there, it is still good. But it isn't the same. And the act of leaving the other, something I will do in a little over a week, is a door truly closing, a time for this summer season to end, in a very real way.

Something I have come to realize, something of importance, is myself. I am the constant in the midst of limbo. And with that, I shall always have something familiar. This is why fear is so very dangerous, because a self engulfed in fear and doubt is not recognizable. If I wish to survive transition and change, difficulty and plight, I must be able to recognize myself, regardless of where I am.

The constant other than myself is change, and how grateful for that I am. For seasons change, regardless of my choices, and the season that will soonest greet me is Autumn. Sigh.

I shall type it at the bottom, taking you back to the top:

"It was a fine autumn day, really, and the air through the open windows smelled like life."
Jesse Ball

gallimaufry.

Some things of interest, or maybe not. Irregardless:

After a day of possessing jumbled head syndrome, and intentionally neglecting to run (master of procrastination), I force myself out the door after class at eight in the evening, and (without forethought) finish my longest run in my nike+ history. 

I, again, almost get run over by a speeding bicycle. However, this time it is by a man who is ringing his bell in warning. I interpret the ding as part of my music, realize my error, and jump out of the way. 

I eat a bowl of cereal at nine in the evening, post long run, with no guilt whatsoever. Not that I would have had guilt anyway. 

I have created a second blog. Though it may be unnecessary, it could also be fun. It will be about my adventures with food. I like to eat, I like to cook, I like to bake, and I like to write. This will be the reading dish where all of those ingredients create an enticing flavor. Yes, that was cheesy. Ha. I did it again! Get it? Cheesy?! My first post is an ode to the potato.

I am reading The Disastrous Tale of Vera and Linus, and it is...too much and just enough. It combines poignant absurdity, fantasy, and morbidity with the mundanity of real life-ness - all of these things I adore. To find them together in one book. Inspiring. 

I have been going to bed quite early as of late, and rising effortlessly without an alarm. 

Seriously. Michael Phelps. 

I have finished five of the six films in the Star Wars movie bunch. I now understand that four came before five, and before one, and also after, depending on your age and which side of the street you are standing. I have seen the firsts, four five and six, and two of the lasts, one and two, and shall watch the middle and the most recent, three, before departure. May the Force be with you. 

I have taught a total of six hours this week, bringing the amount of time I have left in the classroom to...drum roll...nine hours. I shall spend nine more hours working, and the rest, well, not working. The week that follows this will be a sort of vacation, which follows eight weeks that have felt like a vacation. What did I do to deserve this?

I wrote today about limbo, but thought, perhaps, three blog posts in one day may be excessive. 

I also applied for a job. It's not high and mighty, but my mom assured me she would be proud of me even if I never have a - successful in the eyes of the world - kind of job. Thanks mom.  

subway seat.

I had been reading the same book here for over a month. Nearly every day, Ayn Rands words were a part of my life. There were a lot of pages to read, which meant it took a lot of days, which effectively made it a part of my routine. When I finish a book like that, with an excessive number of pages, and speeches by characters that last seventy pages, I feel triumphant. And I also feel sad. I start to go for the book during the lull times of the day, wondering what new aspect will be revealed to me about one of my favorite characters. And then I catch my mistake, remind myself that it's over, and reach down for whatever book has taken its place.

My newest book is very short, and its contents reside in stark contrast to the writing of Rand. It's more abstract, less concrete, less tangible. Rand would probably have the main character thrown in jail. Or at least get in a fist fight with him. He is a cartographer and monk living in Venice, and receives visits from various travelers aching to tell him of their journeys and their finds; both of their tangible discoveries of the land, and also the experiences they went through while immersed in another culture, that are difficult to articulate and explain.

With each of the confusing and inadequate moments that pass me by, I believe more and more that there is a constant undercurrent running through the base of each of our days that consists of misunderstanding.

For obvious reasons, I have placed myself in perfect circumstances for this phenomenon to exert its presence. I am in a foreign country where my language is not the first, and my attempts to speak theirs are often childish and futile. On one of my first weekends here, we went to see movie, and I wanted to try the chirros, a donut like pastry rolled in cinnamon and sugar. I let the kind man behind the counter know that, and he proceeded to scoop some cheese into the empty pocket of the nacho container for my movie enjoyment. 

Riding the subway in Seoul last weekend, trying to get from somewhere to somewhere else, a random act of kindness helped illustrate this phenomenon in my head. An Ajuma, who is a mother, and typically older, who has earned her badge of respect, is usually nudging others out of their seat. It's the culture here, and it makes sense. But kindness is optional. They often don't even notice lines in the bathroom, meaning, they have reached the point in life where "lines" don't apply to them. These are all grave generalizations, as there are many Mary Poppins like Ajumas roaming the streets every day. They just get less notice. 

When I hopped on to the subway car on the orange line, there were no definable seats. There was an empty section, reserved for the elderly and disabled, and since I am neither, I stood. The Ajuma sitting in a seat next to me pointed to the section, letting me know she wanted me to take a seat there. I appreciated the gesture, but didn't want to break the rules. And before I knew it, she had moved out of her seat, across the isle into another, leaving me room to sit in her place, pointing at the emptiness with the tip of her umbrella. And then she just smiled at me, from below her visor, with the kindest sort of smile. And I was so moved. I genuinely couldn't believe the extent of her kindness.

It's not that people here are rude to me, but for the most part, I get more awkward stares from Ajumas than kind smiles. And the effort she took to help me simply be able to sit really got to me. I was sitting there in my seat, looking at my new Korean hero in her turquoise pants and flower print shirt, trying to find a way to express with words how her kindness made me feel. "Take a picture," I told myself. THAT will capture the moment. And then I began to feel this sinking, it will never be enough sort of feeling. 

I wanted so bad to capture the essence of what I had experienced, through memory, or words, or photography, and then I was reminded of the words I had just read in my book, "A Mapmaker's Dream", that went: 

"I realized at once that this was the form his silence had taken, and he had come to see me in the hope of sharing with me the very strangeness of his experience. To his disappointment, he had discovered that it was impossible to explain how he felt."

It happens in friendships, in marriages, between parent and child. Your mother is trying to tell you that she thinks you look pretty in that dress. You hear her say you don't usually look pretty in anything. A laugh that followed someone's words could be rooted in unacknowledged embarrassment, but interpreted as if you were making light of whatever was said. 

It's a language that's deeper than words, and it rests below the surface of easy explanation; it was written from personal experiences that were solely yours, solely felt by you. You can't google its meaning. This I am learning.

Though the reasoner in me wants to make sense of it, and make sense of everything, I think, maybe, some things just cannot be explained, packaged and neat. And sometimes, an attempt at explaining them negates whatever essence I am trying to capture. Sometimes, when dealing with strangers on the subway and people and life, I must simply be confused, hurt, moved, encouraged, bumfuzzled, thankful. And there is something in the raw acceptance of those feelings void of extreme explanation, and the knowledge that people will be there even when things can't be explained, that makes me feel more alive.

(un)salt(ed).

I bought salt quite a while ago. It was sometime within my first two weeks here, which could also be looked at as "The time that Meredith was still a little afraid of the grocery store". I have since moved to the "Meredith is so lazy she must be dragged to the grocery store" phase, but that's not really the point at all. Salt. I decided I didn't want my eggs to live without their iodized companion, so I went in search of the famous couple throughout history, salt and pepper. Pepper was a cinch. It said "pepper" in English on the container, which helped. Salt proved to be the dysfunctional one in the relationship. There were too many clear containers of dry substances in the form of crystal white specks. I asked for help, and though the ladies that take so much pride in their designated spice isle tried, their attempt at help only confused me more, as I had no idea what they were saying, and the other way too. I trusted my instincts, my first guess when presented with multiple choices, and then I got the heck out of there. And I am happy to report that my eggs have been delicious! They have a distinct flavor that I have not been able to quite determine, but are seriously the best eggs I have ever taken the time to prepare.

A few days ago, when Hyerin and I were preparing to bake the most delicious peach pie ever, a few ingredients had to be attained. "Check salt off the list," I told her, as I knew I had plenty. Fast forward to preparing portion of the story. We get to the part in the recipe that asks for salt, and I point to her that it's in the cabinet, "next to the pepper". She returns with my clear container full of a substance in the form of crystal white specks, and she kindly informs me that it's not salt.

What's great about all of this food confusion is that the grocery store didn't sell unsalted butter, so we had to use salted, which meant we didn't need salt for our pie. Great outcome number two is the fact that I found out the reason why my eggs were so freaking fantastic, and the reason was something I didn't mean to do.

I just love it when things accidently turn out so much better than you had expected.


The 

clear

container 

with 

the 

red 

lid 

is 

the 

not-salt 

substance.

an election year.

I love peaches. Like, a lot.

When I was a wee little lad, my brother and I had a sort of fruit rivalry, which worked out in each of our favors - I loved peaches, and he loved plums. I let him eat the plums, and he let me eat the peaches.

At one point, I discovered the glory of peaches and cream. Fresh, fragrant, juicy and cold peaches, sliced in to bitable pieces, placed in a bowl of cold creamy milk. Delicious.

In my middle school years, a time period I would give nothing to relive - as so much of it is racked with insecurity, my friend Chrissy day had a birthday party. It may have been thirteen, that year that ushers us previously presumed children into the misguided mentality of teenage adulthood. That year, the Presidents of the United States of America, a grunge band from Seattle, released a song with meaningless lyrics, touting the abundance of peaches in their life. My friends and I sang that song in endless amounts at her slumber party, feeling cooler than cool, while we ate gushers and chatted online via the wonders of AOL.

A few weeks ago, a friend was singing that song (I can't remember why), and I was reminded of that birthday party. I told him the story I just typed to you. He wasn't really interested. You don't have to be either, and that party isn't the point of this post. It may not have a point, actually, akin to the lyrics of the song.

But it's not over.

I was just sitting here at my computer, humming the tune of the song to myself, because I have four peaches in my refrigerator, delivered right to my door by Hyerin. Her and her boyriend retrieved them from a real life Korean Peach Festival in one of the neighboring tiny little towns settled outside of this one.

...millions of peaches, peaches for me...millions of peaches, peaches for free...

Sometime in between adolescence and adulthood, I discovered the joys of baking. You know this, as some would argue that I don't shut up about it. I was once intimidated by the homemade pie crust. I was afraid of messing up, of its fickle nature, of the fact that no one recipe tells you EXACTLY how much ice cold water to add. It's always, "add this much and then if it seems like it needs more, add that much...but be careful to not add too much...". And then there is the question, "do I use butter or crisco?...or both?...or neither? maybe oil?...yes, that's the answer...oil...no, wait, this person said her oil based crust was a bust...". I don't deal well with ambiguity, and I stayed out of that baking realm. And then I realized that way of thinking was silly.

...no one will die if I make a bad pie...really, what I should do is just try...

And so I did make a pie. And then another, and before you knew it, I was a baker of homemade pies. Which brings me to my next, possibly meaningless, point. I am going to bake a peach pie with my friend Hyerin, the bestower of kindness and also peaches, on Wednesday. They have a toaster oven, and way too many peaches. I have a love for baking pies, and a love for most things in the peach realm. We shall pull our resources together, and together, make a peach pie.

I shall play the song for her while we bake

...millions of of peaches, peaches for me, millions of peaches, peaches for free...

And for a peachy conclusion: years have passed since that meaningless, unforgettable song made its way into my life. Time has changed me, but some things still stay unchanged and true: I still love peaches. I still let insecurity get the best of me from time to time. I still feel really cool around my close friends. I still use some form of the internet to communicate with people that I think are a necessary part of life. I still find myself pretending to officially be an adult.

...millions of of peaches, peaches for me, millions of peaches, peaches for free...

the skinny on photos.

This post is intended for those of you that automatically receive my updates. I have a web gallery, meaning a place where I post my pictures, at: http://gallery.me.com/meredithmaejones. There is a link on my site, labeled "photabulous" if you visit, but those of you that don't also happen to be the ones that are most interested in pictures of life here.

I just added a few new pictures. Nothing earth shattering, mostly mundane, though all good times. Such is life.

I will say that I love to cook, and have not had much opportunity, with the one pot thing and all. When in the kitchen frying the meatballs, I came oh so close to crying tears of joy.

To go strait to the site, just click this link:

photabulous

among the living.

I woke this morning to the latest on MSNBC.

Bernie Mac died.
One of the few trees left, that provided a seat and shade for the soldiers at The Battle of Gettysburg, suffered irreparable damage.
Russia and Georgia are fighting; bombs are blowing innocent lives to pieces.

After finishing the series "Six Feet Under", and experiencing what was, arguably, the best season finale for any series I have taken the time to invest myself in, I was reminded of unavoidable, and forgettable, every life on this earth ends.

It's easy to forget simply because we are alive. If we are alive, we are greeted each morning with breath. What's the point of thinking about not breathing when we are? We don't have to try. We don't have to put forth effort. We just breathe. I usually give no notice to being thankful for that breath, because it just happens.

But then sometimes it doesn't.

I am not one of those people that thinks we should live each day as if it was our last. That's depressing. I don't want to wake up each day and think to myself, "well, this could be it! I might not make it through. I better do everything I have ever wanted before the sunset!"

I just want to be honest with myself. I want to love the people I come in contact with well. I want to be kind, and not neglect doing the things that bring me joy. I want to be thankful, content, confident, present, aware.

I am too feeble of a human and writer to tackle the subject of death. And I don't want to. I would rather tackle the subject of life. And tackle life itself.

It's not the inevitably of death that makes me feel more alive. It's the feeling of heat on my body when my skin sticks to the seat of a really hot car. It's the rush that goes through my lungs when I breathe in freezing air. It's the image of my body laying in the floor, resting, regaining strength after an incredibly challenging run. It's the feeling of hot fresh coffee making its way past the flavor sensors of my mouth, down whatever part of my throat allows liquid to pass through. It's a long, carefree walk in the pouring rain. It's the things that I do and experience when I am living, walking, breathing that make me feel more alive.

I don't want to tackle the subject of death. I would rather tackle the subject of life. And tackle life itself.

reasons to smile.

If the goodness of a day is measured by how exhausted one feels at its close, then I had a really really good day.

Not in consecutive order, but rather, in order of how much space their letters take up:

a nap.
a hug.
wall-e.
donuts.
a good book.
time to read it.
banana pancakes.
a long, arduous run.
interpol playing in my ears.
rain falling outside my window.
the aroma of freshly ground coffee.
a long walk home, in the cool of the evening.

All of these, in their three-dimensional form, took up space in my exhausting, really really good day.

when things find their place.

It's late, and I am content.

I have been freezing my water bottles lately. They turn in to plastic covered blocks of ice. If I remove one of them from the frigidness of the freezer right before a run in the deep of heat, when I return home, it's thawed just enough to send cold ice chills through my body with just one sip. While I sit and type this, there is a frozen bottle at the highest point in my room, de-thawing, and simultaneously making eery crackling noises. The noises are spaced far enough apart from each other that each time one happens, I forget that I have already discovered the source of the sound, and I am frightened all over again.

Fear is a funny thing. It's been present inside of me lately, and it didn't ask my permission to enter. Now that I have become aware, I have officially asked it to leave. It's a waste of my time, and even though I am a sincere proponent of hospitality in most forms, I will not allow the "F" word to dine at my table.

Speaking of tables and dining: Spaghetti and meatballs. A table. A glass of wine. All but the table and wine prepared my the hands of me. A source of thankfulness, free of fear.

This prepared a foundation of contentment that made my walk home especially wonderful, though my sock that kept sliding off of my heel risked ruining the walk. It slid down, and it angered me. I readjusted it to it's place, and then I passed with ease the twenty-something Korean man, smoking a cigarette and trying to win a dum dum sucker out of a pink skill crane machine. Uphill was ideal, and even surfaces - they kept the sock in place. Uneven surfaces caused me to fear...to walk in a way that wasn't comfortable, just so that my sock, shoe, foot balance wouldn't be knocked out of place. It made my walk feel false, forced, unenjoyable. I passed the middle aged couple, dining at a plastic blue table, on the dirty gray sidewalk. Dishes covered the tables surface, with cuisine that is becoming familiar to me, being picked at with chopsticks, at eleven thirty in the evening. These kind of unexpected, out of place sights bring me joy. They also distract me from focusing on the stupid sock, which makes it slide down even more, off of my heel and down to the arch of my foot.

I finally did what I knew I should have done much sooner, but didn't because of the feeling - based on I don't know what - that I needed to have the sock on. I took the damn thing off, and made it home in a confident worry free stride. Now, it's late, and I am content.

arbitrary fangs.

I am sometimes grocery shopping lazy. I will run five miles, but find a way to talk myself out of a ten minute walk to purchase the things that are essential for my survival. I think I hit a record the other day for rationing. I can be cunning, and ingenious, when dealing with peanut putter, one piece of bread, and three ounces of milk. Why do I put myself through this torture?

On Monday, I was hungry, food-less, and craving Korean. I wandered for kimbap at the time in the afternoon when most people are craving the nap because of the lunch they had eaten two hours ago. It was quiet, and for a time, I was their only customer. It was me, the two ladies running the show, and the television screen blasting an episode of crazies, combining the film "Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon", and episode of the Power Rangers, and finally, "The Sword and the Stone". It was all in Korean, so I had no idea what was going on, but when I saw the fanged Asian with a red viking type hat atop his head coming out to pummel his opponent, I knew I should expect to see it up for some major awards sometime soon.

I have less than twenty three days in this country. I have learned more about myself and how I deal with relationships than have about the culture that surrounds me. I think that may make me a narcissist, and also remind me to stop making everything so complicated, breathe in, imagine myself pummeling the red hatted Asian Viking, breathe out, and simply, purely enjoy the days before me while I am able.

walkful musings.

While walking to a friends house the evening last, I was nearly ran over by a pizza motorcycle on the sidewalk, appropriately named because it's where people are supposed to WALK.

When walking in a city, paying attention to the lights that tell you when you should go is very important. Meaning, red tells you you should look really well before you cross. Some people think it means don't cross. I don't know the Korean to tell them it's not that at all. One of the perks of the everyone go green light, however, is that the cars are supposed to stop for you. When someone wants to turn right and drive in front of me, they must wait. It's especially exciting when a big giant road commanding bus has to pause at my pace. In those instances, I usually imagine they are pausing because of my wicked good looks, and I usually see a few passengers snapping a photo or two. It's all a part of this not-delusional-at-all life I lead. You get used to it.

Walking this morning, I realized that I was the designated person in charge of clearing out all of the weaved webs the little spiders were so busy creating as the rest of the world slept. I was not honored to hold the title. They crossed the sidewalks in every single way imaginable. They grazed my forehead, stuck to the light layer of sweat on the skin of my arms, were tangled in my fingers, and threatened entering my mouth. Citizens of Cheonan that walk the same sidewalks: thanks to me, your walks today should be web free.

The point of my walk this morning was to see the sunrise. Wouldn't you know it, I was too early. At one point, when passing all of the excess covered buildings blocking my view, I ran a little because I was afraid I would be too late. Though I didn't catch the glory I had intended, I still loved the still of the morning, and the fog that had yet to lift, hovering over the wildflower lined gardens. Reaching the top of the hill, I accepted the fact that I was either to early, or the sun just wasn't going to greet me today; I turned and walked back down, the sun rising against my back, out of my sight.

markers.

Today marks the first time in six years that I have ran six days in a row. Golly gee, it feels good. Today was the first time since I lived in Florida that I undertook an over five mile run. That feels good too. And in all honesty, it's the first time in my life that I have embraced running with no ulterior motives. I am not trying to lose weight, I am not training for a race, and I am not trying to counter act depression; I am just running. A few things that happened to me on my run today:

-I passed over two snake-length worms. That did not feel good.
-I noticed that the Seven-Eleven that I wrote about in one of my previous posts took the Hello Kitty decal down from their window.
-I almost died while running through the underground tunnel. How? I was nearly run over by three ten year olds on bicycles.

And one more marker: Last night marked the first time since I have been in Korea that I have gone without ice cream for, like, five days in a row. I had to fix that. When it's an occasion, it merits a trip to Baskin Robbins. I usually go for my all time favorite, cookies and cream. Thats what I was feeling when I arrived BUT, nestled next to the tried and true was a container of lemon cream cheesecake loaded with rich cherry swirls. It was so colorful and beautiful. I actually think I heard one of the cherry swirls calling my name. I faced a dilemma. I really wanted the lemon, but would I get it, taste it, and then wish I would have gotten its neighbor? How could I be sure? Was I willing to pay for two ice cream cones? Did I even bring enough money? If I got the cookies and cream, would I be frustrated at myself for being afraid to try something new? Would I always regret not branching out when faced with the opportunity?

Let me just say: it had chunks of cheesecake, the cream was amazing, I had forgotten how much I love lemon, and the cherries - my God - the cherries. Cookies and cream was the farthest thing from my mind.

let's talk.

My computer has become an invaluable part of my existence. It is the way I communicate with the world. My conversations with friends have been replaced with long drawn out emails. Each time I call my mother she cries...Because she misses me, which makes me feel special. But I don't have a phone. I hear her tears through the speakers of my little black laptop. Even communication with the people in my life here in Cheonan happens via computer and Internet technology. Without it, I would probably crawl in a worm hole and die. Without it, I would feel even more disconnected than I already do. Without it, I would feel very, very alone. The computer talk helps.

The rest of the talking happens rather primitively. It's to myself. Many days, I don't actually open my mouth until around three in the afternoon. While sitting at my newly acquired table just a moment ago, picking through the mushrooms in my make-shift spaghetti, I was just telling myself, with conviction, to not be bothered by the presence of the fungi. "They have as much of a right to exist as you do, Meredith. It's not their fault the makers of this packaged spaghetti nonsense felt it necessary to include them in their recipe. They did not ASK to be dried and paired with the corn and basil in a little plastic pouch." And you know something? While ingesting the remaining mushrooms, I avoided the always possible gag reflexes that always risk rising to the surface. Talking to myself helps.

I took this picture WITH my computer while sitting at my table, talking to myself, eating my mushroom filled spaghetti, moments before my current one sided conversation with you.