how the first motorcycle ride down the Super Highway began

After crashing my motorcycle into a batch of shrubbery; after shooing away all the frightened caretakers; after reassuring the human resources administrator who saw me crash the bike and came running over with wild eyes that I was okay; after trying to calm the small crowd that had begun to form around me: "yes, yes, I will still ride this bike home—yes, yes, it's my first time, I think that's pretty clear—no, I won't be alone—," I picked up the vehicle, rammed the crooked key slot back into what I assumed was its rightful position and scootered my way towards the entrance. Blake was there in the distance with a fat grin on his face.

"Blake!" I yelled, still flushed. "I—I can't do this!"

He grinned even wider. "Yes, you can!"

"... I—I also think I'm on the wrong side of the road!"

"Yes!" he called back. He was laughing at me openly now. "Yes, you are! That's okay!"

***

10 minutes later:

"Come here! Here! This lane!"

"No—what—I missed it, noooooooo—"

"That's okay! Just try to get here while the light's still red, we have to turn right at some point—"

I shuffle my motorcycle with my feet in the middle of traffic. Now it sits almost horizontally in front of a car.

"... Bo-Won, that's not—"

"I know, I KNOW. I'm trying—I don't know!"

Somehow, I wriggle the bike around to face the road diagonally.

"Just... accelerate really slowly when the light turns green. You're fine. You're absolutely fine."

"Oh my god. Oh my fucking god."

"You're great! You're doing great."

"FUCK—"

***

completed the first motorcycle purchase

Ah—this is terrifying :(

I wish I didn't feel scared, and I wish I didn't feel so embarrassed about being scared. But that doesn't change how I feel, and how I feel about the way I feel.

Why can't I just close my eyes and do it? (Well—not really close my eyes, that would be stupid.) I feel so powerless and weak, and I hate the offhanded nonchalance with which the other foreigners I've met talk about the mode of transport here. "Oh, yeah, you don't need a driver's license." "It's so easy to get a motorcycle here, it's great." "It's fun, it's so dangerous." Why can't I be as equally carefree? Why can't I embrace the fun in the danger?

I guess this fear owes itself to the fact that my experiences driving any sort of vehicle on the road haven't been too extensive; I've driven my mom to and from the supermarket a couple of times in our car in Manila, which involved driving out of the parking lot, driving down Ayaala road (one of the busier roads in Makati) and moving into another parking lot, but I'd driven down a highway a couple of times and decided that driving really wasn't for me.

I guess that was a luxury that I no longer have.

It's weird that something that I'm so uncomfortable with is just not open for negotiation. Maybe it's a sign of how lucky and privileged I've been to have a) lived in a country where most of the driving was done very easily and inexpensively for me, or b) lived in a country with great public transport, or c) lived in a place where I didn't really need to use public transport. Now I'm faced with the reality that if I don't use a personal mode of transportation, I'm cutting myself off completely from self-sufficiency. I can't afford that—both in the rhetorical and literal sense—I need independence.

Here's a picture of me looking exactly how I feel:

right now:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y2Yd5K8uNac

heartbreaking—the good kind.

wrapping up the first full school week

some highlights include:

- moving into the new apartment in trendy, hip Nimman
- making a few friends around school
- getting tricked into a bible-study reading
- finding a gem of a vegetarian/vegan restaurant near my house
- the first batch of Korean classes
- inappropriateness
- yelling at my students for the first time
- coming to work in the Thai national costume on Friday
- having a few really great lessons

off to relax, reflect and breathe in a bit of the city life for the weekend!

"don't pray to me when you say thank you— khap khun, you are a friend."

A week or so ago, I went with Ajarn L to the bank in front of the university to exchange some US dollars. 

inspired by my second encounter with the Korean missionary, who told me I was going to hell

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91DSNL1BEeY

(more on him later, maybe)

Thanks, boys, now go do your homework!

life philosophies with my 17 year-old host-sister

Gam: "I still don't know what I want to do after—after school.  Many of my friends are good at math and science. Things are better for them. In my school, in order to get into the math and science program, you have to pass a level. If you fail, you go to language arts program. I'm in language arts, but not because my grades were bad. I knew that I didn't want to do math and science.

I'm also very lucky. My parents don't tell me what to area to study in.  Some of my friends—it's not like that.  I'm very lucky."

 

Me: "Gam, I think you're very wise because you know that you don't know, and because you know you're lucky. I wasn't like that when I was your age—I didn't think I was lucky.

I also think our youth is too short of a time for us to spend doing things that we know aren't going to make us happy. I know that this is a kind of selfish way of thinking, especially when it happens to go against what a parent might want and/or think is best for a kid, but this is what I learned in America: Spend good time trying to find what you love, and when you find it, fight for it with all your heart. Having someone decide who you are and what you should be is a sad waste of life; how could anyone else know what you want? The part of you that you created through the decisions that you've made consciously is the most precious part of who you are... Did that make sense, Gam?"

Gam has the roundest, squishiest cheeks I have ever seen in a girl, and when she smiles, they squeeze into balls of soft flesh that pushes her round eyes into crescent moons. Those crescent moons twinkled at me in the unlit backseat of the car as we drove home, Ajarn L humming softly while we continued to talk.

and to combat the excessive amount of angst in this blog

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7V6scd8-V8&w=560&h=315]

here's a video of my head-of-department's puppy to prove that my life here has also been pretty great

being the new Korean teacher, and being Korean

There are a lot of triggers here that have popped up that made me realize that this year would be much more difficult than I thought it would be. There are some wounds, some unresolved feelings about my cultural upbringing that have somehow found their way back into my life. A lot of those feelings come from growing up in the Philippines as an expat.

And a lot of those feelings come from being 'citizenally' Korean, which are... complicated, to say the least.

I found out within the first two hours of landing in Chiang Mai that I was also going to be teaching a Korean language class in addition to my already-overwhelming load of English classes. There wasn't much I could do about it, but it's also a little unsettling that I'm faced with this task right after I'd made the realization that I would probably never live in Korea again. I understand that this is part of the 'adventure' that this program so proudly advertises—embracing the challenges, the on-the-go decisions that you have to make—but this is more than a "step out of your comfort zone"-type of deal. This isn't about eating crickets and fish heads, or riding a songthaew to work—this is about me and my memories of Korean school in the Philippines, of being Korean in the Philippines, of being 'with' and not-'with' the ever-exclusive Korean crowd on campus. So much of my insecurities growing up stemmed from being unable to truly be a part of the Korean community, and it's strange if not wholly ironic to me that I find myself being introduced around campus here as 'the new Korean teacher.' My students seem to be much more interested in asking me about K-Pop, about Korean party culture, about Korean dramas, than learning English, which I thought was what I'd come here to teach.

I don't mind. It's not too difficult for me to build up this identity for my students—it comes really easily, actually, digging up old stories and tidbits from the K-Pop bank that I thought I'd closed off and locked away forever after my freshman year of college. But the stuff that's more difficult for me to deal with actually comes from my interactions with the other Korean language teacher. I met with him yesterday to discuss the syllabus and honestly left the meeting a little bit disgusted. He means well, but just happens to hold a set of characteristics that I saw a lot of in the expat Korean community that I grew up around—a suffocating sense of duty towards that ethnic bond, a distrust of local people and customs, and an air of self-righteousness that came both from the pride of being Korean, and of being Christian.

"There is nothing that resembles any sort of public transportation here in Thailand," he told me at the coffeeshop, grimacing. He had just paid for my coffee and meal, and was asking me in a concerned, avuncular manner how my living situation was like. I told him that I would manage, that I planned to learn how to ride a motorcycle here.

"I don't think you know about what it's like here," he said, sighing as he did. "It's very dangerous on the road. The Thai drivers are all hooligans—they get into a car without learning how to drive it and zoom off into the road.  Not like America." I told him that I came to Thailand knowing that the roads were a little wild, and that I would be just fine. My priority was to find a house. "I can find you a house through a Korean real estate agent," he told me in earnest, somehow interpreting my words as an plea for help."We Koreans have to look out for each other."

And without missing a beat, he added swiftly: "Do you go to church?"

"No," I replied, "I don't."

"Would you not like to accompany me sometime?"

"No," I said, emphatically. "Thank you so much, but I'd like to decline."

"What a pity," he clucked, loftily, "that you won't get to go to heaven."

...

Ugh.

When we proceeded to actually talk about what we went to the coffeeshop to talk about—the syllabus—it was disheartening. "The students here don't study at all," he said dismissively. "I've created a book—you're free to follow it, but you're also free to do whatever you want.  It won't really matter; again, the students here don't study."

"What about the final exams?" I asked him. "Shouldn't we at least make sure that our material matches so that we can create exams together?"

"There aren't really final exams here," he said. "It doesn't matter. It really doesn't. There are two types of students here: the rich kids, and the kids who are looking to find rich husbands. They don't care."

"Well... okay," I said awkwardly, trying to change the subject. "How did you learn your Thai?"

"Oh, Thai such an incomplete and lazy language..."

...

I know I should be understanding. I am painting a very poor picture of a man who is undoubtedly kind and well-intentioned, and he runs his Korean class (which I sat in on to make notes) with a level of patience and understanding that I don't think I'll ever be able to maintain. He stands in front of the classroom, switching back and forth between carefully drawn-out Korean and broken Thai (he doesn't speak any English) while students chat and titter, paying little to no attention to this sweaty little man. He didn't even come to the city to teach Korean; his original role was to be a missionary.

But there is something incredibly "White Man's Burden"-esque about the way he describes everything in the city, and it makes me want to throw something in his face every time he says "the people of this country" (이 나라 사람들). There's nothing derogatory in the literal meaning of the words—you could apply the term to people of any country—but I actually don't think I've ever heard a Korean talk about Western countries using those terms. There's something Other-izing in the words—a very subtle nuance that makes it come across as a condescending remark, as if it should be accompanied with a supercilious smile.

... but idk. I know I'm being unfair and making huge, unfounded claims and generalizations; I already kind of regret writing this. Maybe I'll return to this post when I have a better idea of what I'm being critical about.

t's also, frankly, really unfair to the students.

This is an aspect of the program that rubs me the wrong way, and _____.  Right now, I'm trying to figure out how to best be a teacher, and half of the office is ...  Some of the people here have also been ...  //  "It's Thailand, just roll with it!"  How about: it's really irresponsible, so just sit back for a minute and think about _____?

I may not want to be a teacher for the rest of my life, but I still owe it to the people I promised...

The head of the English department got me

The head of the English department got me drunk last night, and is taking me with her to get Thai massages in a half hour.

I— what?  Is this... okay?

The first classes

Oof.

Schedule: two classes of Conversational English (AE215) and General English (GE108), with a Korean (?!) class that they surprised me with (and we can talk about that later...)

AE215 are the conversation classes for the English language majors, and are supposed(?) to be ...  But the first class was frenzied, disoriented (or was it just because I just frenzied and disoriented?)  

Second class was smaller, more intimate, and much easier to reach a breakthrough point.  Thirteen kids who laugh easily, are eager to have fun and please me.  

My co-teacher warned me about GE108, which was the required English class for students of other majors.  I get the nursing students in the mornings, and the law students in the afternoons.  The nursing students are sweet, diligent and also eager to learn and to follow directions.  

so, I freaked out about flying business class and kept a kind of Twitter feed in my notebook during the flight

7:30PM: BUSINESS CLASS IS NUTS, WHAT ARE THESE STEWARDESSES ON?

7:32PM: And why can't they be nice to us like this all the time? I just got served orange juice that they probably squeezed themselves, I don't know. And they want me to know their names.

8:10PM: So, I pushed the buttons of my seat to make it recline a full 180 degrees and actually moaned out loud. "Sunhwa" came over and asked me what was wrong. I told her that I was really tired, and that this was great. She flashed her pearly white teeth and said that if I was hungry when I woke up, I should just call and she'd prepare the meal service for me whenever. I mean, this is ridiculous. Atrocious, even. I almost want to do something terrible, like throw the juice on the floor or get really drunk on the flight, just to see how far I can go before that smile cracks. Jesus.

8:15PM: HER SMILE IS SO BEAUTIFUL WHEN SHE TALKS SHE SINGS AHH

8:17PM: SHE JUST PUT A TABLECLOTH OVER MY PULL-OUT TRAY — A TABLECLOTH. WHAT MADNESS.

8:23PM: I was trying to rearrange my overhead luggage and she pulled out one of the giant suitcases and did it all for me WHERE IS THIS HERCULIAN STRENGTH COMING FROM SHE'S TINY AND SHE'S SMILING HER SMILE THE ENTIRE TIME

8:30PM: STEPFORDIAN.

8:30PM: So, stewardesses, guys. They're all trained in first aid, are charming and beautiful, level-headed and at least bilingual. WHAT ARE THESE AMAZING WOMEN DOING IN THE SERVICE INDUSTRY?

8:35PM: what is this shit, it's a sliver of cheese on a bed of clovers, garnished with tomato slices shaped like snowflakes, drizzled in a mint-green dressing that's actually sparkling what is this even where am I

8:50PM: ICE-CREAM IN A BOWL.
ICE-CREAM. IN A BOWL.

Just boarded, and realized that there was a forgotten item.

Goddamnit!

The first part of this journey begins with an item left behind, as journeys tend to begin (at least, with me.) I had been gushing about my new camera lens for a week, taking care to make sure that it arrived in New York in time for me to take it to Chiang Mai with me. And now, it sits sadly in a forgotten corner between the door and my bedroom wall.

It's a fitting start that I'd leave behind something that would help me cope, help me start anew and make fresh, beautiful memories of the new place that will occupy the next chapter of my life. Maybe it's an indication—or a betrayal—of how I feel about leaving behind what seems like everything important in my life. I am unprepared, to say the least, to throw myself into this new world.

I am terrified.

I wish I didn't feel so unstable, so insecure, so goddamn vulnerable—I wish I could feel the reckless excitement that I had felt when I was heading off to Kyoto and Johannesburg that summer of my sophomore year. I was ready for a change of scenery then, desperate for a chance to discover and/or rediscover the part of me that Princeton hadn't claimed yet. I was hungry for a new beginning. I was ready to swallow the world whole.

But that sense of fearless, even foolhardy adventurousness is gone, and gone when I'd most needed it. All I can feel right now is a terrible sadness and sense of fated helplessness, like I will always be destined to drag a suitcase around, to be a citizen of everywhere and therefore nowhere. All I can hear are my dad's words when, during our department reception, he and the administrator were chitchatting over my fellowship, and of my wanderlust: "It's always been very hard to catch her!"

My mom has patiently assured me that she'd find a way to ship my camera over to me when I give her a permanent address—essentially, when I find a home to settle down in. Will I only truly be able to make this place my own when I'm ready to accept its permanent role to play in my life?

I know that this is silly. It's actually really stupid; I even have another back-up point-and-shoot camera that I brought with me, so what do I have to really complain about besides my unbearably characteristic first-world problems? My excuse is that I'm a lit. major—I can't help but read too deeply, too critically, into things that sometimes can't lend themselves to that kind of analysis. And I don't think I'm really fooling anyone; clearly, the issue here isn't really the camera. But there is a perverse sense of comfort in interpreting this as a kind of purposed narrative, rather than own up to what it ultimately is: me just being super careless with my things, and me using that as an excuse to vent out my insecurities about going to a new place.

Airport #2. I'm gulping down the wine at the KAL lounge's open bar

like water.
Maybe this way, the flight won't be so bad.

This might be the world's greatest airport—and an airport that feels more like home to me than the apartment in Seoul that our family moved into three years ago—but it's still an awful place to be right now, even under the otherwise great circumstances (the magic business class upgrade, and with a world-class airline. But I really don't give a damn.) I'm tired of leaving places, and of leaving people, and I'm scared of what awaits me when I land at the airport in Chiang-Mai. Of being an imposition to Ajarn L, who is already taking the trouble to pick me up from the airport and let me stay with her for a few days; of the disaster that might be my first class(es) tomorrow, for which my lesson plans seem feeble and naively optimistic; of the realization that this was all a mistake.

on moving on and reflecting

I had been infected with a terrible wanderlust that came upon me sophomore year.  It was my first taste of the pleasure of traveling, of associating wonderful memories with a specific city.  Kyoto planted it there, and I had little time to process it before I hurled myself into my next destination — Johannesburg, in South Africa — immediately afterwards.

An esteemed friend of mine, Christopher, with whom our close and immediate friendship ended that summer as summer friendships do, said that perhaps it was the best coping mechanism of all — to move on somewhere else, and be distracted by —————.  But memories, experiences and discoveries about myself in Kyoto turned into dust, scattered to the winds, as I found myself in the wilderness of this African city that I had not prepared myself for in any means.  I learned wonderful and terrible things about myself, and about a world that I had never cared to know.

And after South Africa, I flew to Korea to catch by breath before flying yet again to another uncharted territory in my life — England — for a study abroad.

I wish I had done a better job of recording my time in those three places.  I kept a blog, but as I read the drafts of unfinished entries, of thoughts that only seemed to teeter at something poignant but instead seemed to drift off at the promise of it, frozen in its potential, I mourn the value of what could have been.  Of course, much of this is in the narcissistic sense.  I mourn the poetry that I had never written, the insightful commentary about life and the world that I could have written, and proven that I had uncovered a gem about life’s mysteries way before anyone else did.

Now I've left the U.S. and realized, startlingly, that ...

I realized when I was talking to a friend of mine, who was telling me about the changes that had come over his home in Singapore, and how __strange that made him feel, how exoticized his country had been made to him, and he asked me whether it made sense to attach emotions, locational nostalgia, to a place... call it home...  and I realized that I'd never once been able to truly call one place my home...

One last look before I fly away

I've never liked you, JFK, but that doesn't make it any easier to leave this country.