On Reverse Culture Shock; For the Korea Herald

For any person who has ever stared at their reflection beaming on the surface of a globe, and watched with wonder at the spinning orb set into motion by one's own hands, the prospect of travel is probably an attractive one. Whether one leaves home for school, work or pleasure, the basic idea of departure from family and friends, and living within language and cultural restrictions--especially if it is to be for an extended period of time and if one has never done so before--can be very frightening. This fear, however, is an obvious one; rather inevitable, really. Dubiousness and anxiety seem like pretty normal reactions on preparing for a trip into unfamiliar territory. And that's fine. However, what many people don't realize is that the traveler's eventual return home can be just as stressful and emotionally wrenching, if not more so in some cases. Basically, while the fears associated with arriving in a new country can be rather linear, sometimes a return home can be much more troubling and complex. The symptoms (the issue is acute enough to warrant them) have become known as Reverse Culture Shock.

For those unfamiliar with the term, Reverse Culture Shock basically has to do with the problems associated with readjustment to the culture of one's own country after having been abroad for a length of time. Basically, after having gone to another country; consumed the local food and drink; inhaled the air; listened to the strains of music and words voiced in exotic tongues (which may not sound quite so foreign by the time one has to return home), the traveler has, in a small way, allowed a part of his former self to become lost, temporarily forgotten. So, Reverse Culture Shock has to do with examining the changes one has made while abroad and the struggle to make them a relevant part of life at home among family and friends who may not quite understand.

Humans, it seem, have a tendency to forgo one way when they adopt another. As with technology, when we discover something better, we're usually very willing to do away with something else that has grown old and superfluous. The same goes for ideas; points of view; perception. Seasoned travelers (or those with like tendencies) understand that change is often necessary. They understand that living a life wherein each day passes indistinguishable from the next is the stuff of forgetfulness and nervous breakdowns. To escape what might feel like an increasingly shrinking environment, one might go abroad, see the world, and in so doing, completely forget that regular life in one's own country, in the environment in which one was raised and for which little is surprising, can be mind-numbingly dull. Perhaps living in an environment that is wholly different from what one is familiar with, aids in the ability a traveler often has to view an old subject with new eyes, which makes change not only inevitable, but also a factor that could prove detrimental in his re-adjustment to 'home.'

Essentially, once one has modified one's old behaviors overseas, sometimes it's difficult to go back. The process of re-adapting can be alarmingly similar to devolving. While changes can become apparent in a variety of extents —morally, philosophically, politically—in an effort to remain neutral, let's imagine this problem in terms of food: Basically, It's like eating authentic Korean food every day for a year and returning home to a place where you could potentially get some kimchi—maybe—if you're willing to endure two hours in a car and don't mind the taste of over-salted, not at all spicy, limp cabbage. Chewing, one's friends remark how excellent and unique it all is. Meanwhile, one suppresses an urge to spit.

--------------------------

------------------------------


Some might think it crazy to imagine ever feeling ill at ease among their family and friends, but, without a large network of people speaking one's language, eating the food to which one is accustomed or engaging in familiar religious or social practices, the traveler will surely feel out of place upon his/her immediate return home. Abroad and lost in the blurry alien mass of people, street signs, places of worship, and visceral cognizance, there are many factors that can inadvertently (and with a sense of some necessity) alter a person. The problem is in making these changes--which may be beneficial to one's life overseas—apply to a life at home.

We sometimes hear of the process of cultural disintegration—some call it “the melting pot--” that happens among immigrant groups who decide to settle permanently in a different country with a well-established way of living (like North America ). While 'the melting pot' is a process in which one isn't exactly given a choice but to accept the culture (in order to get a job, go to school, etc.), it is also one that tends to happen gradually, as immigrant groups have a tendency to establish their own cultural communities within their new countries and are therefore not cut off entirely from their culture. Eventually, they are accepted as citizens and are not looked upon as curiosities. For a traveler, however, the situation is very different.

In general, people who leave their own country with the intention of coming back to it (sometime in the not too incredibly distant future), do so with purpose and are generally aware that they have a chance to reinvent or enrich themselves (whether in a cultural sense or spiritually). However, unlike an immigrant to an ethnically diverse land (where language abilities are the principle requisite), throughout his/her life abroad, a traveler of a different ethnicity will most likely never be mistaken for a local, no matter how well s/he has adjusted or how long s/he's lived in one particular area. Generally, the constant perception of oneself as an outsider is acceptable to a person while overseas. However, returning to one's own country to discover that having changed a great deal, one remains foreign; out of place, can be very depressing and lonely, like it's impossible to belong anywhere.

Also, unlike immigrants, those who go abroad temporarily are also often alone. This means that, at the end of the day, unlike most immigrants, the traveler will not be surrounded by much of his/her own culture's influence. And, because of the traveler's aloneness, it will become very necessary for him/her to assert himself, to seek out what s/he needs and to make sure s/he can understand whatever might be going on around him/her in basic, every-day situations. Basically, the traveler has to become a stronger, more self-reliant person.

Depending on the traveler's disposition prior to his/her trip, upon his return home, s/he may seem different in the eyes of his/her friends or family. While becoming less wishy-washy may seem like an improvement, changes in an established personality can be a bit strange or uncomfortable for those who know him/her, especially after recalling the old version of the traveler while s/he was away. Likewise, aware of the changes s/he has undergone, the traveler may struggle with whether or not to suppress them when among those who expect him/her to behave in a certain way. While this scenario may seem a bit too seeped in neurotic self-examination, regardless, this sort of awkwardness and inner conflict can be very upsetting to a newly returned traveler, especially one who has become accustomed to being his/her own person; a stranger in the world (and therefore immune to an outside search for precedents).


-----------------------------------------------------

Having established that living abroad can change a person, notwithstanding, the approach of one's return is still an attractive thing for many living abroad. Anthony Trollope wrote in 'Returning Home'(1864): “It is, I think, to those who live farthest away from home, to those who find the greatest difficulty in visiting home, that the word [home] conveys the sweetest idea.” Basically, having been away from home for an extended period of time, the concept of home has a nasty tendency of being elevated in one's mind, often to much undeserved height.

Regarding one's home and country as the paragon of all that is comfortable and good in the world might come naturally to one who has grown jaded, not only at the comments made about the strangeness of one's alien appearance, but at the unintentional jabs directed at one's cultural quirks (or lack thereof). A similar surge of patriotism may result in one who has wearied of frantically trying to recall certain essential phrases in moments of duress, or who has grown tired of feeling illiterate, left in the dark.

Yes, in moments of vulnerability (which happen to conveniently coincide with extreme exhaustion, and sometimes, the drawing to a close of one's time overseas), even the most escapist among us seem to forget that there must have been a very good reason in the first place to venture forth, as it were, into the unknown. Because we remember what we need to get us through the day, sometimes even cynics crawl into bed at night, dreaming of home. The fact is, too many of us lose sight of the actuality of things, especially after having grown accustomed to an environment that may at first have seemed particularly surreal.

Many of us are raised with the idea that home and family are important, and that no matter where one journeys in life, there will aways be somewhere to come back to. Notwithstanding, if this seemingly quaint, greeting-card-esque notion of 'home' doesn't quite apply, as it often seems not to (some gag-reflexes just aren't strong enough), sometimes, somewhere in one's world-weary mind, a tiny fleck of pure nostalgia will erupt. The particularly stubborn side-effects of an affliction of this nature tend to consist of the idealized notion that not only is home truly “where the heart is,” but also where, at the end of the day, one should “hang his hat.” Over-usage of corny, archaic adages may also result, apparently...

The problem is that the longer one dwells on (rather than 'at') home, or his perception of it (or how it ought to be), the more resolute one's expectation of total familiarity becomes. However, as previously mentioned, traveling does have a tendency to change a person and more likely than not, family and friends will be slow to understand where one is coming from, as some things can only be learned by life experience. For those returned from abroad and still caught in the mindset of the departed country, getting someone to muster enthusiasm for one's travel stories or to understand one's references, can be highly frustrating and disillusioning.


---------------------------------------------------


Though the comforts of home might be nice for a brief amount of time, for a newly returned traveler, unfortunately, the sensation tends to wear down sooner than might be expected. Travel, in all its possibilities, is undeniably exciting. When one takes a trip or lives abroad, however, one often becomes so consumed in one's own life and adventures, that very little consideration is directed at those still at home. While this is a generality, of course, and probably won't apply to everyone, the point is that when we're stimulated by the things around us, time doesn't seem to drag so heavily.

Sometimes, caught up in one's own sense of things, one can forget that at home, things are probably proceeding with a thudding regularity. This also means that even with the absence of a friend or family member abroad, life can carry on like clockwork and that one's much lauded return will probably only cause a minor and very temporary ripple.

Basically, it seems that traveling or working abroad can be a somewhat selfish endeavor, as in one's mind, an enormous amount of attention and discussion (not to mention the inevitable viewing of photographs) ought to be directed towards the adventurous, absent party. The notion that life resumes immediately after you are dropped off at the airport, and most likely, without even a rupture in the figurative stitch, is sometimes a little too depressing for the average traveler to take into consideration.

Likewise, the realization that the bright, cheerful reaction to one's return home (anything occurring on solid ground does tend to seem mildly halcyon after twenty-odd hours on airplanes, however) is not to be permanent, can be the happiness-shattering effect one needs to comprehend that one's family did in fact, carry on; that time did not actually cease to be in one's absence.

While it's true that at first, there will likely be a general sense of excitement and lots of questions to answer (which can be exhausting and repetitive), eventually, after all the stories have been recalled (and embellished/censored depending on the audience) and everyone has tired of references they can't understand, life will suddenly even out once more to that dreaded, ego-deflating, reason-for-having-left-in-the-first-place flat-line. And, instantly, one's previously buoyant sense of time can hit a grinding halt.

'Time' is one of those concepts that is generally difficult to wrap one's mind around; not so much for an inability to understand its absolute necessity in modern life, but rather, because of the various ways it might be perceived. The fact of the matter is, that, though it may seem perfectly reasonable to measure time by space, watching with the usual apathy as one's second hand ticks steadfastly on (this only works if you wear an archaic analogue watch), completing its anticipated circuit, time is very rarely actual.

Basically, while a year can be remembered by one person as intoxicating, visceral and blindingly (and disappointingly) quick to end, for someone else, that same year might have very well been long, exhausting, and essentially, the worst ever. For a person whose time abroad ticked itself out in the former case, returning home to a family and group of friends for whom life probably plodded along in a very redundant manner (one which rarely allows for the recall of small moments of happiness, it would seem), the slow-down (of both life and time) upon one's return and after the initial excitement of one's return has faded, might be somewhat demoralizing. One might regret having ever returned at all, or find one's self up at night, conceiving of ways to escape to the airport in the early pre-dawn hours.



-----------------------------------------------------

Although it is not the intention to provide an exaggerated examination of the effects of Reverse Culture Shock, eventually, like any other problem (death, addiction, or separation, for instance), the 'victim' will have to suck it up and become re-adjusted to the reality of his life, no matter how bland or predictable.

In popular culture, the steps toward attaining acceptance are sometimes poked at (often with comic effect) with reference to the Kübler-Ross model, which suggests that before a person can acquiesce to life, he'll go through stages of denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. While the writer is unaware of any fellow traveler's experience of Reverse Culture Shock reaching such dramatic levels, perhaps, in some mildly neurotic, psychosomatic way, it's possible.

For instance, when one is in that transient sort of state between the return home and, in some cases, starting all over with life (getting a new job, a new apartment, etc.), a person can spend a lot of time accomplishing very little other than making social calls, and basically telling the same stories and explaining the same things over and over again. It is at this point that one can ignore the fact that life has suddenly become uninteresting and that one's friends are becoming bored (one might defend oneself, muttering aversely about jet-lag and transition). Hence, the first stage: denial.

When the interest one's family takes in the traveler's return suddenly drops to a disappointing, low, or (for instance) when it becomes clear that, despite one's frequent and devoted use of on-line albums, they haven't actually taken a look yet; stage two is palpable. A person newly reunited with family and friends can become rather offended when people seem uninterested in the significant, missed events of one's life overseas; Anger, then.

Having overcome most of one's frustration and realizing that 'jet-lag' (see denial) is no longer a good excuse for one's general unhappiness, perhaps a person might begin to console himself by making unrealistic plans to return abroad as soon as possible, or to plot out in one's mind all the things that could be done to make life reflect one's time overseas. Working oneself up in this way, bargaining, can of course, only lead to the next step.

Depression can hit hard when the reality of one's situation becomes clear. Generally, the prospect of having a lot of work to do (should one have to, in effect, start over) is a bit demoralizing for most people; it's even worse for a person who may have fallen out of touch with all his old contacts and whose current friends are several continents and many time zones away. Furthermore, the reality of yielding to a life at home that seems a lot less invigorating than the one known abroad can seem like a step backwards; a step backwards, blindfolded, on the precipice of a cliff, of course.

Acceptance, finally, is what happens when one finally moves on (perhaps because the absurdity of having gone through four psychologically recognized stages is enough to snap anyone into action). Basically, there's only so much time a normal person can sulk about the dissatisfying aspects of his or her life before trying to ameliorate them.

It's at this point, that hearing one's own language is no longer such a shock (commenting about how 'weird it is' will no longer be among one's most over-used expressions, either). Also, one's personality has a tendency to re-adjust itself, elastic-like, according to one's immediate needs (yelling with urgency at one's overseas boss to help jog his memory about an overdue pay check might be substituted with more passive aggressive means at home, for instance).

Essentially, Reverse Culture Shock can be unpleasant and apparently, given the Kübler-Ross treatment, somewhat emotional, though it tends to last no more than a month or so. However, some people are barely affected (until of course, they read otherwise).

Whatever the case, have a great trip home.

Exodus

"You can do it. Your skin is thick," he pulls at her arm, catching a hair between his fingers in the process. "Pinch" he says. It comes out long, like a drawl, like he's making love to the words, his tongue twisting around it, sloppy wet. It reminds her vaguely of a dishtowel she once had: red and entirely unable to absorb liquid. She thinks of the sound it would make when she would drop it on the floor--an unappealing dead thing: Sploch.

Sitting there, on her stool, watching them all play pool, the people she'd gone to high school with, who never acknowledged her then, but couldn't seem to get enough of her now, she wondered, "Am I really brave enough to do this?"No money had yet exchanged hands. She could cancel the flight, go home, start looking up universities that would accept late M.A. applications…It would be easy. Real simple.

She sips her drink, a Bloody Mary. She'd always preferred her alcohol to be red. It was nicer that way, a childish little quirk that she'd decided never to justify. Just because. She sips again and her lips burn fire, the sides of her mouth stain crimson. She wonders if a kiss would leave a mark and grins widely, that trademark Chesire cat/Joker grin that shows off her gums, oh-so maniacally.

"You've got a pretty smile," he says, pinching her again, irritating to no end. "You should smile more often. Nice teeth." She looks up from her drink, knows that she could say something coy, something clever like, "They bite real well," and smile, but instead, she mutters, "Thanks. I'll try."

She pats him on the head, like a puppy, and goes up to the bar to order another: a double, lots of Tabasco, please. She wonders if she will, in fact, try—to smile that is. Will there be things to smile at in Korea--Mildly amusing anecdotes; university stories; reminiscing on times gone by; drooly boys with sloppy red tongues to humor? She assumes there will be, but she worries. Why go to the other side of the world for the same old thing if I already have it? Is that all there is? She waits for the bartender to put the celery stalk in her drink before she makes her way up to the pool table.

The boy has fallen asleep—passed out, actually—his beer mug drained. She sits down anyway and decides she might as well relish the silence, the thoughtful, intelligent conversation (though it be only in her own mind) for once, just for a change. She knows it will be difficult; that she'll be isolated, alone. Nothing new there. But, she imagines that it will be a chance to reinvent herself, to throw away the bits she despises: the odious thoughts that drive her to insomnia and depression that make her want to die. I can whittle myself down, she thinks, smooth out the lumps, until I'm a perfect little clothes-pin person.

She knows that in Korea, it will be different, new, exciting. No more walking into a bar, knowing exactly who will be there, what music will be playing on the jukebox, the questions people will ask her, the answers she knows she'll say. No more knowing how they'll laugh; no more watching as they move on to some other victim of pedestrian-deja-vu land. No. No more of that. No more of even understanding the words people say, though. No more knowing, really; no more mental and verbal regurgitation.

The girl knows that for her, Korea is an escape; that some realize it and others don't. There is always something to run from and for the girl, the unknown has a certain charm, a mystique, sort of like watching an eyelid close slowly, as it sweeps away vision with soft, long eyelashes that graze skin softly.

The girl sighs. She finishes her drink and stands up. A sharp pain runs through her stomach. Fuck, that hurts, she thinks. She's consumed a lot today (even if they were just Bloody Maries), and that's unusual. Her stomach can't handle very much. This depresses her and she lights a cigarette. She is worried. There are always 'What ifs' to consider. What will happen to me if I die in Korea, she wonders, pulling the smoke into her lungs, deep, like one holding on tight, 'for dear life,' they say. Will anyone know or care? Maybe not. She tells herself to make an effort to be okay. A mental note: 'OK.'

Last night, her mother had told the girl that she was worried, really worried, that she needed to start taking better care of herself, that she should keep taking the pills, "'cause they'll kick in soon enough and you'll feel great," Great. Only another month or so of dizziness and nausea, heart burn and headaches not to mention an overall mental stickiness, like there's gum stuck on my frontal lobe, she thinks. Fucking fantastic.

She stands up and puts out her cigarette, a crooked, shriveled Du Maurier King Size. The boy wakes up and confusedly looks at her, his face all creased from the sleeves of his corduroy jacket. "What? You're leaving?" "Well," she says, "My flight's the morning after next. Going to Montreal tomorrow. Getting up early." She lets him hug her goodbye, and leaving, she waves to people she doesn't really like very much.

Outside, she breathes the air, clear from cigarette smoke and the stench of beer. Inside, the sounds are the same: raucous laughter; cue-balls clacking together; shrieking girls. Fun times. Same old shit.

And she thinks, so this is it. Walking slowly, she can't help herself from smiling, a quiet, happy little twitch of her mouth, not very jester-like at all.

Yeah, she realizes, this is it.

Camelot

The girl belonged to her sadness. Like the tide, it overwhelmed her everyday (though without warning; not enough time to bring in the towels, you see). And with just as little notice, it would leave her, like a spurned lover, abandoned and even more miserable; muddy feet her only souvenir.

The girl belonged to her sadness. It helped her build the walls, grey and high and impenetrable, around her. She remembers twirling, watching the air catch her skirt beneath her as the bricks were laid like magic, delighting in the constancy, the anticipated 'clink' as each stone met stone. The sadness had built her a home—or a prison, a place of solitude to be sure, but one which did not lack a particular serenity.

Last night, driven by insomnia (despite having swallowed two sleeping pills), I searched my apartment for something to read; something appropriate for 5am; something to compliment the sounds of traffic, blaring ambulances and horn honks. I selected something generic from an open box of books (I've already begun packing my things in anticipation of my 'escape' from Korea)—a large anthology of English poetry; I'd used it several years prior in a British Literature course. Examining the contents, I turned to an old favorite, Tennyson's The Lady of Shallot, a highly appropriate choice for an isolated foreigner, I should think.

Reading with the freedom of one who will not be tested at a later time, I said each word slowly, letting the syllables twist around in my mouth. Reacquainting myself with the sounds, I found myself becoming somewhat uneasy; familiarity has always upset me somehow, like repetition means that something wasn't quite right the first time around. I closed the book slowly and shifted flat on my back.

Tossing a pillow to the floor, I was suddenly overcome by an immense weight—the sleeping pills—like I was hit and blacking out, like every ounce of energy was being siphoned; a plug released at the back of my head. Alarmed at this onslaught, this deprivation of will which I'd decided to inflict upon myself some several hours prior (they sometimes work very slowly for me), I propped myself up in bed, heavy and light (it's hard to say, exactly, which would overwhelm the other in a struggle to describe the sensation) at the same time…Deep breath, check your pulse, check for a heart beat, see if you can stand up.

On wobbly legs, I made it to the fridge where I downed a few gulps of water and decided an apple would be okay. Taking a few large bites, I brought it back to bed and lay down chewing, trying not to choke.

Sleeping pills are very strange. I've tried many and there are a variety of side-effects, which differ by drug or brand. With Nyquil for instance, you just kind of slide into a light sleep, like immersing yourself in a bathtub. The dreams I experience though, are rather fucked up.

I recently had a memorable dream about quarters and how the government decided they were superfluous and should be recalled and destroyed. Like any issue of interest, however controversy surfaced and two separate viewpoints emerged.

One side declared that quarters were a blight to the wallet, the eye, and to national security (don't ask me why). The supporters of this side claimed that dimes and nickles would serve the needs of the people quite well, that quarters were ugly and cumbersome.

The rabble-rousers on the other side of the debate, however, protested that all the vending machines and public telephones that take only quarters would have to be replaced, and that this procedure would surely put the country into a state of financial deficit, if not total economic ruin.

In the end--although it's really hard to pinpoint an "ending point" in a dream before the dream physically finishes--there was a world-wide recall and all 25 cent pieces were taken in and melted down for dental fillings. As a result, fanatical coin collectors became maniacal about rounding up as many quarters as possible. At night, people were burgled for the dusty quarters in old piggy banks (the weird thing about dreams is that I did not actually see—in my mind's eye—images of robbers climbing through windows, but somehow, the idea was inferred by whichever part of my brain is responsible for such inferences). In any case, 'quarter-theft' was on the rise.

Meanwhile, I'm in Korea, neither thinking nor caring about quarters and the (apparently) global repercussions of owning them, when I'm approached by someone in a trench-coat claiming I have something special. Mildly freaked out by 'trench-coat-man's' lack of a discernible face, I start running. The dream is essentially one of those typical chase-scene dreams and it's through what looks like a mixture of Bucheon and Ottawa—I can see the parliament buildings, but the vegetable stands and the garbage-lined streets, not to mention the exclusively Korean people walking about, overwhelmingly suggest the former.

Eventually, I trip and I fall, and notice that there's gum wedged onto the toe of my sneaker. Embedded deeply in the gum is a dirty, 1970-something Canadian quarter, sticky and disgusting. My pursuer stops dead in front of me, and screaming, "Take your damn quarter." I throw it hard, hitting him directly in the center of his forehead. It sticks, like a dirty, pinkish-reddish, possibly cherry-flavored third-eye. He looks upwards and goes cross-eyed. All around us, sirens blare and my alarm goes off, proving once again, ladies and gentlemen, that I am completely deranged.

Anyway, last night, I didn't take Nyquil (I have run out), but something inappropriately (and rather unoriginally) called Simply Sleep. Though I can't recall any actual dreams, the process of "drifting" off to sleep was terrible and mildly hallucinogenic, I think.

So, like I said, I'm laying flat on my back, chewing my apple when I'm struck with a sense of paralysis, like there's something sitting on my chest, not letting me breathe. My mind races…incubus, succubus? I convince myself that it's only the pills working their magic, so I try to relax and slowly lose consciousness, but each time I close my eyes, It's like I've plummeted off a skyscraper and pounded flat on my back, into pavement. My eyes refuse to do anything but jolt immediately awake.

I decide to pass the time (given I can't get up and am not motivated enough to try) by letting my eyes trace the patterns in my bedroom's lace curtain, the useless dollar store purchase thumb-tacked to my ceiling. Unfortunately, this proves disastrous, as I begin to convince myself that there are suspicious shadows, like circular shaped blobs that seem mildly tarantula-like.

I close my eyes tightly and when I open them again, the shadow is on the other window. A moment later, it's beside the wall near my head, and looking, I realize it's merely a trick of the mind and the light. I am still terrified and anxious, however and wake up several times in the next several hours, convinced that insects are crawling all over me (and my just-laundered sheets). Eventually, hours later and sometime after dawn when the racket usually starts in the hallway—doors opening and closing, dogs being let out for a walk—I sleep. And, people wonder why I'm so exhausted.

Anyway, perhaps this recent bout of insomnia has to do with my anxiety about a wide variety of things, the most prominent of course, being the end of my contract at Bicycle Language Institute here in Korea, and my return home for a month or so before I pack up again and move to Las Vegas. It all seems slightly surreal, like it's not really my life I'm writing about.

I'm worried about my final pay-check and severance bonus (a reward for staying a full year), as well as my plane-ticket. Will my boss try to screw me over—as he seems so fond of doing time and time again?

I'm worried about going back home, the questions and the silent assessment of my mental and physical health—the awkward hugs that always seem more like a search for prominent bones, the way they watch me eat, suspicious. What if my return home—home, with all its bad associations--catapults me into a bout of depression and rage as it so often does?

I'm worried that I won't be able to handle being shut out and bored, trapped in the middle of nowhere's-ville, rejected by friends with more interesting engagements—handling life at home the way it usually goes, I mean. And, after living in such a manic, neon, so-fast-paced-it's-blurry year-long mind-trip, will I, unable to cope with such a blinding contrast, be quick to embrace that part of myself which I despise, but am intimate with, regardless?

So, I'm worried about leaving and I'm worried about coming home and falling into all the old, anticipated behaviors that come so naturally around certain people. But, I'm also a bit concerned about leaving again and returning once more to utter uncertainty about my life, my abilities and of course the nature of the experience itself—I've never lived with another person, especially one who I care a lot about and who knows me better than most. Basically, what if I just can't keep it together? What if I become paranoid, that feeling like the chastisement of strangers, the disapproval of friends and the rejection of blood-relations combined? What if seeing my face, the sound of my feet on the floor, the way I open cabinets becomes an un-ignorable irritant? What if I run out of things to say, to think, to imagine? And worst of all, what if old habits become necessary? And, what if I can't stop; shake off its parasitical leech-grip, and turn my mind inside-out, you know, like beating a rug clean? What then?

And so, trying to forget the tingling imaginary spiders dropping from the ceiling and crawling all over my body, I grit my teeth and 'suck it up' (yet another expression I think makes little sense, but which I will use here as it seems to fit--and I am feeling a bit at a lack for words), I think of habits and how terrible and addicting they sometimes are. Finally, bored and in search of distraction, I decide to read The Lady of Shallot once more for good measure,

In the poem, the lady is trapped. Alone in a tower, on an island near Camelot (where King Arthur was thought to live), she lives a cursed life. While we do not know why she is cursed, exactly, one might think it is partly self-inflicted (but maybe not). In any case, the lady is not allowed to leave her tower. Furthermore, she is forbidden to look out the window.

She does however, have a mirror and the mirror is her salvation. She spends her time gazing into it and catching the reflection of the people and the world below her. They fascinate and terrify it seems, at the same time. She documents what she sees by weaving into her tapestry these things she cannot touch, the people she cannot speak to,

The people of Shallot know she is special, magic, maybe. They hear her singing, but they don't know her curse, all they can do is speculate.

One day, looking into the mirror, the lady sees Sir Lancelot on his horse coming from Camelot. In love, and unable to resist, possibly looking for a formidable hero to save her from herself, from the curse, she approaches the window for the first time ever. She feels the sunlight upon her face and she gazes straight down at him, self-destructive, but so satisfying. The mirror shatters. Her life's work, the meticulous tapestry is rent from its stand and flies off on the wind, gone. The lady knows she has ended it.

Outside, it is the dawning of a violent storm. The people return to their homes. It is autumn and the dead leaves swirl violently, symbolically. She walks along the river and finds a boat and writes her name on it, as if to tell the world, this is me; think of the stories, know what I am and how I lived, how I suffered.

She gets inside the boat and sets it adrift towards Camelot, the home of the man who managed to kill her and set her free in the same instant. She feels the onslaught of death and begins to sing her final song. She lies down in the boat and dies, sun on her face, released. Her body is found in Camelot, her intended destination. The people read the name on the boat and realize she is indeed the mythic Lady of Shalott, her curse ended. They mourn her death--though they did nothing to help her in life—and pray for her eternal soul.

Lancelot, however, cannot see her internal struggle to break out of confinement; to gain recognition; to be accepted among people; to be loved. Instead, all he can do is to assess her beauty, because for a woman, you must realize, that's the most important thing.

"But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

It's a sad poem—very demoralizing—but its significance and meaning is certainly not lost to me, as ubiquitous as the parallels are. It's crazy how things kind of stay the same.

I met up with a friend in Bupyeong recently for supper and a few drinks. What I find striking about this day is that for someone I barely knew up until then, the conversation was remarkably deep and thought-provoking. It's a very rare thing to really just observe and exchange ideas with a person who speaks honestly and without much reservation. Perhaps it is the cynicism that's seemed to have worked its way around my heart—dark and slow and random, like ink released into the water—over the years, but most truths are candy-coated, a little bit of sugar to cover up a bitter pill.

We talked about a lot of things: our families, work, the factors that drove us to Korea; but watching him speak, my entire perception of him changed—something a little sad and slightly tired, like a long, drawn out sigh, gradually became apparent. It's hard to find the right words to describe this 'something,' but I know it as most do, as the accumulation of life as it piles up—too much to simply sweep under the rug, too little to become over-the-top alarmed, but just enough that you can feel its oppressive, suffocating, rather unpleasant scent. Garbage.

The world is a funny place, I've learned, and it's really not so different on the other side of the world. People will always tell us how to think, that things are true when they're not; they'll judge us by our appearances, not by our skills, not by our intelligence, not by our compassion. They'll size us up, assess, medicate. In the name of making us better, the world will try to change us, cover up our insecurities and fears and model us after itself. They'll do all this to make sure we're perfect, like a proud parent counting fingers and toes, checking.

It's always been a challenge for me to discuss my unhappiness. I'd been resistant to therapists for years. But somehow, there, in the near-empty bar with bored servers meandering about pretending to clean the counters, I somehow managed to be candid. The walls of my tower did not crumble. I did not have a moment of revelation. Lightening did not strike me down. But, it was surprisingly easy to say the words I said, to talk about the pills and the fear and how I'm really tired, but not in the sleep-sense; how sometimes I think I might just die, that I'll become resistant and numb to everything; that the final brick will fall into place cutting off my oxygen, my contact to the outside world; that I'll just let myself fade away—out of sight, out of mind. No dramatic trip to Camelot for me, no one to marvel at my life or achievements, just gone, like dandelion fluff on the wind.

I alarm even myself sometimes and this moment was not an exception. Not really looking forward to "the reaction," I slowly raised my eyes from the glass where they'd been firmly planted as I'd been speaking, and actually, he didn't really seem so surprised after all, like maybe, my 'something' sometimes shows through it all; like maybe, I'm not a very good liar and my friends are not so gullible after all. It was one of those moments where my mind could conceive of nothing clever to say to make what I'd just said seem less severe. Nothing at all.

He told me that his idea is that the world has very few individuals who allow themselves to be different and honest. And that, coming from a world where 'different' translates to 'strange' and honesty makes people uncomfortable, these rare people are often unhappy, maybe a little escapist. Some kill themselves and the rest come to Korea to teach English, I guess. Anyway, he told me that these individuals almost have a duty to the rest of the world to stay the way they are, to make an impact. Winston Churchill was bipolar, he said. An extreme man for an extreme time, I think, though I'm just some girl on a precipice, waving frantically, trying to get a little recognition, not some revolutionary. Tough luck.

It's hard to recount quite what he told me next, but the long and the short of it is that to get a little satisfaction, a little peace, you need to stick it out, otherwise you kind of deserve to be forgotten, It's like bowing out of the game early actually makes you pretty unremarkable, not rare, not different, and not so honest after all.

This conversation was something I needed. After an incident at the bar, when someone mentioned (over a plate of strange, Korean-ized poutine) that I looked like I need to eat more (to which I did not respond, and took up a forkful of cheese, annoyed), he told me that he wanted to talk to me. He said that he was going to think about what he wanted to say and that it was important and so, I should really try to remember. He told me to write it down. Okay? Important. It was one of those conversations that feels kind of like a release, cathartic, but also keeps you up at night, brain on fire.

I did see a counselor—Jane—during university, for several years, and while I admit that our sessions did tend to upset me (sometimes), I do miss talking to someone like her, impartial. While I do feel as though I've been quite honest with John—more-so than I've ever been with someone with whom I've been in a relationship—it's an honesty that sometimes feels a little censored primarily because I know that sometimes he's a bit scared for me and thinks its possible for me to just suddenly be alright, like magic, ta-da.

On the weekends, they go to a vegetarian restaurant. They stumble across it by chance and consider themselves pretty lucky, checking carefully that it is actually, honest-to-goodness meat-free, true vegetarian cuisine and not just pork or fish piled on top of soybeans and a block of tofu, Korean-style. Inside, they see the glass-door fridge and give it the thumbs up—soy meat.

By mistake, they confuse the waitress and order too much. It's delicious, so they eat it all anyways.

Walking from the restaurant back to the hotel, the girl begins to feel a little nervous, a little weighed down. And, by the time they're back in the room and the man plops down onto the bed, "stuffed," he says, she is in full-scale panic mode.

Worried about the food she's just consumed, she is in fact very unwell. It's only vegetables, she tells herself…There's pressure on her stomach and the man is sitting there, watching her fix her hair. He tries to put his arm around her waist (she swats it away), which feels about ready to explode. It's a sensation that makes her want to run away and hide out somewhere. Physically, she feels disgusting, yes, a sluggish lump, but mentally, the girl is on a rampage, shrieking, to the nearest washroom. But, she knows she can't. She'd promised. The man watches her as she eyes the toilet. She just can't.

She'd been trying really hard lately, even putting on several upsetting pounds. But, she thinks, it's really very difficult sometimes to pretend to be alright. The guilt, the worry, the sadness, all of it adds up to the pile of what she calls 'the something," emotional rubbish. She tells herself to deep breathe, again and again and again. She is worried she will start to hyperventilate. In her head she can almost hear her mother's voice telling her, "It will go down soon. Wait. For people who don't eat a lot normally, food goes through the system really quickly when you occasionally eat a lot." Not very helpful, mother, the girl thinks.

Standing in front of the mirror, watching him, the man pulls her down onto the bed and asks her to please not do it, but if she really must, she can. He asks her what it will look like. The girl's eyes roll upwards. She is not in the mood to divulge details and can feel the anger rising. He tells her he loves her and is worried about what her body must look like from the inside. Innards, he calls them. The girl feels terrible. She really can't do it now. Not today. Fuckfuckfuck.

She has never been in this sort of situation before. It's usually a yes-no flash judgment that does not require discussion with a second party. Opinions do not need to be formed; it's really not one of those decision-making-sort-of-circumstances. Honestly.

Time passes as they lay there on the bed, all stretched out. She can feel digestion. Her stomach aches. He asks her if she's still upset. Yes, she says, "It's painful."

The man takes the girl by the hand and says they should go for a walk. "You'll feel better; It'll help," he tells her. "I know it will." Standing up, the girl is not so sure.

Hush

The girl is silent in a spinning world of questions and traffic and other people. As shapes, relatively formless--the girl does not lift her head, so she cannot discern otherwise— d rift by, teenagers, arm in arm with long black hair, bangs in their eyes, turn and look at the anomaly—the blank, hazy, foreign lump on the bus stop bench and the confused-looking man behind her. Giggling, several long T-shirt (or mini-dress) wearing early twenty-some-things walk by, disregarding the pain in the alien faces, the distress and the anger. As they pass, they turn blatantly to stare and exclaim with surprise to one another in Korean that the couple is attractive. The girl understands them and is annoyed that the natives of this country seem unable to consider the unfamiliar with conventional standards of social behaviour. Turning and pointing and assuming one's complete ignorance of Hangook (not to mention universal body language) is quite rude, thinks the girl. Allowing this thought to consume her otherwise impassive, vacant-feeling consciousness, the girl's desire to remain in a hushed state, as a means to suppress her ultimate wish to scream and kick and criticize nothing in particular (but everything, cumulatively), prevails. Leaning her head against the smog coloured, no-longer translucent bus-stop glass, she shuts down…..

When angered, she becomes absolutely silent, void of all emotion or sensory perception. When questioned, a robotic nod of the head, or a tinny "No" from the back of her throat is all she can conjure, so absent does she feel. She remembers how, in her youth, the slightest nudge to her temper—the most minor bump-- would send her flying into fits of rage and emotional hysteria. For many years, the anger had defined her, shaped her like a sculptor's fingers manipulating the clay, cutting parts away, making edges sharp. As a child, she would slam doors and write Crayola coloured obscenities inside the walls of her closet; she'd sit perched on the pile of fallen clothing strewn across the wardrobe's floor and coated with cat hair. They told her not to scream, you see, so her bedroom was the only place she felt able to handle the silence (or near silence)—nothing but her own strained breathing and an occasional gasp for air—as she struggled through silent tears of frustration.

Sitting beside her on the bus-stop bench, he watches her closely for any signs of life, some glimpse of recognition in the eyes that look so eerily clam and glazed over. He wonders if she's taken her pills, like she'd said, or if maybe she'd thrown them up when they went for tea earlier in the day. He wonders if her silence means she prefers to tune him out and escape into a wormhole of neurosis and loneliness, swirling around clumsily, like a dancer in the dark. He wonders if the trip had been a bad idea. He begins to regret it. He begins to think that perhaps her silence means she has tired of him, of his voice, of his mouth, of his lips. Maybe she thinks that being lost in a strange place, staring out into the streets and the multitude of dingy, local seafood restaurants is preferable.

The girl knows he is upset. He is digging, asking her questions, attempting to initiate a more satisfying response than the monosyllables she's been whispering between half closed lips. It's an odd sensation, feeling angry for no one particular reason. She realizes how awful it is that by continuing to speak, he is inadvertently making himself a target of her silent, little temper tantrum. That he is standing before her, waiting for an answer, forcing her to converse, begins to anger her... It makes her think of how, as a child, no matter how often her mother told her to "Just ignore them," choosing to disregard others was never actually an option. Choosing to sit against the heater in her bedroom, singeing the back of her jeans, as she read, rather than watch idiotic ultra violent action movies or police dramas of a similar ilk with her family, somehow managed to transform her into the catalyst for tension and discord throughout the household. When he—her ever present and rarely silent father—screamed, she wasn't allowed to walk away. He wouldn't leave her alone or release her reflection—it was small and warped and it quivered in beat with his drippy red pupils—from his dark eyes until she spoke, her voice muffled by tears or scorched with rage, "Yes, Daddy."

Silence has always come naturally to me, but in Korea, the inability to communicate effectively has made it an essential part of life. If I am upset or annoyed, no good will come of raising my voice—nothing will be accomplished. My protests, however eloquent they may be, will not be understood, but instead, laughed away with an apologetic shake of the head and, "English, no." At work, I speak constantly to my students, and by the end of the day, I am rather hoarse and wonder how many of my words were lost in translation or even listened to at all... At home, I collapse into a chair in front of my laptop and allow my voice some respite. I drink the Cheonji Dew tea I picked up with my ceramic tea set in Insa Dong. It tastes sweet and fresh and I wonder about how something so fantastic can come from a tiny, shrivelled leaf stuffed into a cardboard cylinder. Perhaps words function in the same way. Maybe it's best to say little and sacrifice yourself to the judgement of your appearance and movements. Someone famous (the name escapes me, momentarily) once said, "Many attempts to communicate are nullified by saying too much" and based on my experiences this year, trying to spark the slightest glimmer of comprehension, is easiest when you stick to one word and proceed to act like a mime, rather than try confusing synonyms, in the hope that one will register. Should dramatic eyebrow raising and hand gestures prove to be impossible, I've found that a note pad on which to draw often proves quite useful.

Maybe it's alright that most people can't understand me here anyway. I've answered the same barrage of questions countless times especially when attempting to buy something, "How old are you? Where are you from? Are you married? What do you do? Do you have a point-card?" When this happens, all you can do is try your best to hold the smile and utter the words from behind gritted teeth, even as they stay staring, sizing you up, expecting you to dive into a barrage of more interesting facts about yourself, very curious and mildly surprised to see someone so different (allegedly) in their presence or gracing their store-fronts. Perhaps they imagine that an alien's perspective is dramatically different from their own and are merely attempting to satisfy their curiosity by asking questions of apparent interest. Or, perhaps they feel complete silence is a trait of the foolish or the miserable, character flaws if ever they existed, here in Korea. As I exit stores, I mutter my "Kamsamnidas" and "Anyongi Keseyos" in what I can only describe as a perpetually embarrassed hush. As I make my escape, I hope that should I ever return, someone else will be at the till or that the curiosity about me will have run dry and that my silence can be accepted as respectful or exhausted, or Zen-- any one of these will do.

At work, we are currently in the summer semester, which means I start earlier in the day and work twice as many classes as I normally would since most students actually have the time and energy to attend. My boss and I exist in this school, 'Bicycle,' together but rarely acknowledge each other's existence. Either I work and then go on break while he works, or we teach two separate classes at once, and then trade. Needless to say, approaching him is really very difficult. I sometimes say "Hello" in the mornings or "Bye" as I'm leaving for home, but it's rare for him to concede to my presence by even looking up or saying anything more than, "Neh," the Hangook word for "yes." Lately, I've been getting utter silence from him, so I no longer feel the desire to even make an effort. I can be very non-communicative as well.

As my contract draws to an end, I think my boss is finally beginning to understand that without me, he's rather fucked. I don't think he realized that only two months remain for me, until earlier this week when I demanded he give me back my university diploma, which he had insisted on keeping because supposedly, he'd wanted to display it. He removed it from the same manila envelope I'd sent it in; my own hand writing was in the corner. Before he handed it to me, he made a fumbled attempt to smooth out the tears along the edges, a result of being crammed into an over-crowded book-case, I'm sure. I stood there, silently, waiting as he used both hands (a sign of respect in Korea) to pass it to me. I'm certain I looked highly incredulous. I had asked for my degree back several times throughout the last ten months without success. I'm almost positive that he felt holding it in his possession would be a way to keep me at his school; I know he must be aware of what a terrible boss and a terrible host he's been to me. With only two months left and my recent declaration to him that I would be going straight to the ministry of labour if another problem arose, I imagine he figures I've decided to tough it out a little while longer and won't be making a Midnight Run…

My recent workload has not afforded me ample free-time, and so this has been my first attempt to write in approximately a month. Work is very much an unpleasant experience, sometimes, not because of the teaching or the students, but because of my boss' continuous disregard for me; I've decided that he is unable to view me as anything but a worker, because unable (but more likely, unwilling) to communicate with me, he cannot sympathize with me or regard me with any sort of human compassion. Last week, I was sitting at the computer at the secretary's desk—she was staring at my screen and trying to read it, instead of doing whatever it is she does—typing up a lesson plan, when the boss came over and starting speaking with her. Within a moment, it was clear that he was talking about me, not only because I am able to understand many words in the language, but because he was deliberately pointing at me, as if I couldn't see his hand a meter from my face. Rather angry, I tolerated this behaviour for a good 5 minutes before silently getting up and returning to my desk, my lesson plan nowhere near complete.

Three weeks ago, I finally managed to take four vacation days, which was a challenge. In my absence, my students informed me that all they did was do listening tests, which means the principal popped a tape into the cassette player and left the room. It's unfortunate for them, but I really needed to get away. In the middle of the week that I took off, it was a National Holiday, which meant I had Monday through Friday and both weekends on either side to my disposal. It was the most time I've had off from any job ever. I looked forward to an escape from my current reality, which before I came here, seemed like the ultimate in escapist fantasies.

On my first Saturday, John and I decided to make the very long trip by KTX train to Daechon beach in Boryeong, as it was the first week of the Mud Festival. The festival is on the beach and is essentially a free-for-all of alcoholic hysteria and mud fights with specimens from around the world in an assortment of colors. It's supposed to be excellent for one's skin.

The train ride was interesting. Though we'd purchased tickets beforehand, we were not assured a seat until an hour and a half into our three hour journey. Like many others, we propped ourselves and our bags up against the exit area's walls near the restroom, moving each time someone needed to pass. In the cars, standing people held onto anything they could, hovering directly over the seated, squirming inward whenever the snack cart (which contained an assortment of convenience store treats—kimbab triangles, eggs hard-boiled in soy sauce and Pringles) clacked by, heaving with both the weight of the load and the sway of the train in motion. We were lucky enough to get a seat on the metal steps for awhile, though each time anyone got on or off, we had to rise and make way, inevitably losing our place. When we got our seats, mine was occupied by an older man, who I felt rather badly about showing my ticket to and asking him to leave. But, that's how it is, here. People will do as they feel until someone tells them they mustn't. He complied immediately.

Upon sitting down in the relatively comfortable seat, I fell asleep. John was sitting several rows behind me, as we weren't lucky enough to get placed together. As I slept, I recalled my only other trip by train: I was six years old and with my sister and brother and mother (my father did not attend my mother's family functions) on our way to Toronto for my uncle's wedding, a lavish ceremony to celebrate his second marriage. This trip had been much less chaotic and is actually one of my favourite memories. I remember sitting by the window counting telephone poles and playing "I Spy" with my sister. My mother had packed some fruit and sandwiches and I remember feeling excited and very important to be taking such a trip, my first time beyond Montreal. To keep us entertained on the 5 hour voyage, my mother had packed coloring books and readers and bought each of us a little present. When my mother handed me the box, I remember being captivated with the contents, as I was a very imaginative child, fond of princesses and unicorns and fairies; Inside the translucent plastic box, her limbs secured with white twist-ties strung through the back, was a beautiful blonde, blue-eyed doll in a white dress wearing a silver crown. Beside her, there was a plastic lion with wings and a blue crown. I called the princess Aurora and the lion Roarie, as clearly, I hadn't developed the keen sense of originality for which I am currently known.

Sitting on the KTX train, my head nodding, I thought of that day and how happy I'd been and how easy it had been to get me there. I find it terribly unfair that the more we age and the more freedom we have to make our own trips by train and provide our own entertainment (an iPod and Chuck Palahniuk's "Rant" in my case), the more likely it is that we'll become desensitized to adventure and play. The dreaded hush will come over us and we'll fall asleep, waiting for the ride to be over so we can move on to the next anticipated, convoluted thing (which more often than not, proves somewhat disappointing).

We arrived in Boryeong late, missing the mud (somehow they 'ran out', which considering the ingredients, seems a little odd to me). We met some friends at their hotel, and had a few drinks, catching up on the events of their day and the melodramas and arguments of the particular moment. It's very difficult to be among very drunk people when you are entirely sober and tired. Talking is a bit forced, but eventually, I reached a comfort zone. We were not in Boryeong long, considering the length of time it took to get there. We spent the night drinking and searching for people who'd run off, angered or sullen, onto the beach and into the water, which was cold and shallow. I went swimming, briefly. It was my first time in the sea. I haven't been swimming in a very long time and I was never very good, but I had fun.

Despite the festive nature of the evening, I spent a significant portion of the night by myself, wandering around the beach, searching for lost friends with a cell phone that wasn't working properly. I must have gone up and down the length of the boardwalk, three times, at least. The crowds were enormous and fireworks, a stage with a rock show (if you can call Korean singing, such) and food vendors were everywhere. Little girls in sun dresses played with sparklers, shrieking in delight, and drawing pictures in the sand with their bare toes.

Realistically, it did seem rather improbable of finding two girls who'd probably lost each other, anyway. But, the time did afford me the opportunity to reflect and to appreciate the sea and the wind and the smells. The sound of people and their voices intermingled in languages I am unable to understand; Korean, Japanese. It all seemed so loud, but so wordless at the same time. The wind, buffeting around beach balloons tied to strings and pegged to the ground, scooped up words and whole sentences, weaving them in between each other, like an orange pylon obstacle course or a piece of fine embroidery. Everything bled together and an odd sort of peace was conceived from the noise, which I found ironic. It made me think of large seashells and how when you hold one to you ear, there's an echo-y, eerie sort of calm, that is most certainly audible, but indefinable as anything but silence. It's like how sometimes; things or people come from the most unlikely sources. Like how hope can be a product of destruction or disease; two polar opposites that loop around deformedly and link at the waist; Siamese twins; BF4EVR.

I never found them, but I suppose things worked out in the end, as I've seen them both since and they are neither drowned nor injured. In the morning, when we awoke in our hotel, about a ten minute taxi-ride from the beach and directly outside the train station, we decided we had no time to appreciate the beach by the light of day and that we should get our tickets and return to Bucheon by train as soon as possible.

The train trip back had standing room only. We managed to get a drafty little area (near the air-conditioning) in which to sit, free from people trampling us each time an entrance or exit was attempted. Returning home felt longer than the initial trip there, but I suppose knowing we had a very tight schedule—we had to catch a flight to Jeju Island (our vacation destination) at about 7:30 that evening, made it seem that way. Dismounting the platform at Seoul, we went to Yongsan and picked up a bit of reading material, as I have been stricken lately with the intense desire to read literature. That's generally how it is for me, though: When I read a lot, I don't tend to write often; at these times, I'd rather escape from my own rambling thoughts and bask in admiration of truly great writers. And, conversely, when I write, I very rarely read, as I try to avoid potentially adopting a style or tone that is not mine. I live too much in words and it is very easy for me to take on a foreign voice and imagine it as my own to the point where even my dreams are confused, my subconscious somewhat pathologically amnesiac.

From Yongsan, John and I went to my apartment in Bucheon, where I quickly threw some clothing and necessities into a suitcase. John surfed the internet to find out about the exact location of our hotel, a useful thing to do considering we were staying for a full five days. We made it to the airport at Gimpo (which is primarily for domestic flights) via a taxi to Bucheon station and then made a rushed transfer to another line halfway through the trip. Though my small suitcase has wheels, lugging it up flights of metro stairs when a thousand or so people are running down, is both vertigo-inducing and not fun.

We made it to Gimpo just in time. I'm sure we were the last passengers to check our luggage. The flight was amazingly short at only about an hour. I'd expected it to be longer; but then, I was never any good at reading maps.

From the moment we disembarked, it was apparent that there would be communication problems for us on the island. Unlike Seoul, a highly metropolitan city of dazzling neon lights and chic university kids who are quite aware of popular culture and the world outside of Korea, Jeju Island appears to have very few foreigners. I know that there are at least a few language schools in this part of Korea, but whether they are taught at by native English speakers or Koreans who can pronounce the letters in the alphabet (or press "play" on the tape recorder), is unknown to me. It seems to me that there is much more of an "island mentality" here when it comes to learning English. Unlike in Bucheon, where at any hour of the day, students can be seen on the streets, in between classes, munching on skewered chicken, dried squid, or any number of other street cart delicacies, here the uniformed throng of Hagwon (English Academy) school children on bicycles and rollerblades, buffeting around umbrellas and book bags is practically non-existent, which explains why no one seems to speak a word of English here.

The people of Jeju are not only poor at English, but seem mystified when confronted with western faces. I am convinced that most Koreans' experience of North Americans has created a dual bias in their minds of two types: the overweight, loud mouthed American and the celebrity; when the assumption is disproved, and a regular person is seen as neither overweight nor unattractive, the word "Movie Star" gets tossed about quite a lot. I can not recall how many times I was gawked at and complimented, but it was a lot. It did not make me feel very comfortable, being stared at so intensely. It made me uptight, irate and somewhat afraid to make eye contact with people, as they stared deeply, picking out every little detail of my face and body, analyzing and making assumptions.

On the second or third night we went to a bar near our hotel and almost immediately, the staring started. John jokingly informed a man and his wife, their young daughter in tow, that I was really famous in Canada. That piece of information made us very popular. Some men at the bar bought us drinks and poured a few shots for John. In addition, several random people, including the family, insisted on my posing for their camera phone pictures and having me sign autograph pads. One man even invited us to come and learn how to SCUBA dive with him, an attractive offer, but one which wasn't exactly viable, as diving must be done in the morning or early afternoon, and it was rare that we left our hotel before 3 pm.

Apart from attempting to find decent, cocktail serving drinking establishments, we did manage to see a few interesting things, though the way Jeju is set up, everything of interest, apart from the beaches, of which there are many (it is an island, after all!) seems to be located in the middle of nowhere and isolated with nothing but temples or mountains around. Once, we tried to take a day trip to somewhere or other (my memory is a bit fuzzy and I should have written sooner than now) and the bus driver told us we were at our stop, which wasn't quite true. Getting out and watching the bus drive away was a bit confusing, as we clearly weren't where we had meant to go. Instead, black, ashy mountains stretched all around us. Below, we could see a squat elderly couple in rubber boots and sun-hats sitting beside their horses, which were probably being let for rent or short rides, like a kid going around the track at a village carnival. To the left of where the bus had dropped us, there was a small, somewhat vacant-looking Buddhist temple. The only people around were a taxi cab driver smoking outside his car and a girl in an information booth stacked with tourist pamphlets.

A bit annoyed and with few other options, we took the taxi and drove down to Seogwipo, a slightly (this is the operative word) more populated area. As we drove, I stared out the window and blinked my eyes at the sunlight, which was intense and warm for the whole five days. The terrain of Jeju seemed wild and lush to me, especially having come from the mainland, where there is little to no apparent vegetation. I was amazed at the palm trees. I've been on islands before, of course (Montreal is an island, technically), but none of them have ever been tropical enough to produce palm trees. The roads are narrow and all along the ditches and beneath bridges, vegetation tangles thickly; wild flowers and weeds mixed with vegetable crops.

Rice and barley are grown wherever it's convenient. Ditches seemed like a popular place, most likely because they act as water reservoirs of sorts. Driving by, my forehead against the cab window, I noticed old ladies, their backs to the highway, squatting and tending to their crops. They wore straw, cone-shaped sun-hats and 'gal clothes,' which are a very basic brownish-orange coloured outfit dyed with the juice of the persimmon fruit. This is considered to be the traditional uniform of the working (field-labourer) inhabitant of Jeju. Persimmon-dyed clothes, hats and purses are sold in nearly every tourist trap sort of store on the island. I stuck to relatively small souvenirs—some special Jeju honey, which is harvested from bees that consume pollen from the flowers on the top of the dormant volcano, Mount Halla, as well as some interesting jarred tea varieties like cactus flower and citron, which are apparently specialties of the island. I bought postcards, and tea spoons at one place, but after that, all the other tourist stores appeared to be exactly the same to me.

We spent a few hours at a beach on our second day, though I found it far too cold and windy to actually go into the ocean. I've never really spent much time near the water (minus the privately-owned lakes in the Eastern Townships), so it wasn't easy for me to get used to rough sand blowing in my eyes and sticking to my arms and legs, like a coarse second skin. The walk along the precipice was of much more interest to me and we took a lot of really good pictures. Looking over the edge, we could see people rooting around the black, slimy rocks, looking for seaweed or oysters, or other such shelled creatures, a staple of the diet here, which made finding variety in restaurants somewhat of a challenge. Before coming to the island, I'd read a bit about the 'Jeju Mermaids,' (usually middle-aged to elderly) female divers who collect large quantities of seaweed during the mornings. Apparently, they're a fascinating sight to see. I'm sorry to have missed them.

The Mujanggul caves were fairly interesting, though very cold and dank. Jeju itself, like many tropical islands, was formed when a mostly underwater volcano—Mount Halla—erupted, spitting molten lava all around it. Hitting the water, the lava cooled, forming solid land. Thus, Mount Halla is in the island's center, having spewed equal parts all around its fiery breach. Mujanggul is essentially, a place to see some preserved examples of the volcanic offspring—interesting rocks, massive stalagmites, and hardened lava trails among other geological wonders which I know very little about. Anyway, upon entering Mujanggul, we descended a staircase and immediately found ourselves in a dark, frigid, underground pathway pocked with ankle-twisting pot-holes filled with water which dripped incessantly from the ceiling (or the ground above our heads, I should say). Cold and concentrating on the relatively dry (though slippery-looking rocks), so as not to fall, we made our way along the trail, passing others on their way back, also trying to keep themselves steady. It was really quite eerie, taking a walk underground in the dark, jumping over puddles and onto rocks, like it was a visit to the heart of the island, or at the very least, its progeny.

Among other adventures in Jeju, we made a trip to the world's largest museum of Sex and Health, an informational and entertaining showcase not only of a variety of facts, but of games, art, and sculptures. Outside the museum, the yard is filled with statues of sexual expression—mostly phallic and vaginal. Touristy couples with cameras—ourselves included—found it an impossible courtyard to pass without taking a few posed photographs; there's no better way to remember your vacation than a picture of yourself standing beside a six foot tall marble penis…that's what I always say…(ha-ha).

A major goal for our vacation was to relax, as clearly, we both needed it badly. Beside our hotel, was a small spa where John received a massage and I got my first ever facial, which made my skin luminous, but felt tedious, as for an hour, a variety of different concoctions were coated over my face and eyelids, scraped off and applied again. I've decided it's a bit of an over-rated practice and I have no idea why it was necessary for me to change into a fluffy pink tube dress (which wasn't staying up very well) for the experience.

On our last day in Jeju, we did manage to catch wind of a very interesting spa experience at a very large, fancy hotel up near the mountains—our ears popped as we approached via bus. I had my reservations about attending a spa, as I'm not exactly comfortable with locker-rooms or bath-houses and the obvious requisite nudity. In Korea, bath houses are a way of life. Whole families go together and the males and females separate to their respective areas. Apparently, according to some male friends who attend on a semi-regular basis, it's not uncommon to see a teenage boy washing his middle-aged father and vice-versa.

Upon enrolling in the spa experience, we were told we had forty-five minutes to get ready and shower, before meeting up with the other members. I went left, as John disappeared into the Men's Bath at the right. Upon entering, shoes are removed immediately and stored in a special locker by an attendant who somehow remembers each person's number. I was shown to a locker, where I was expected to disrobe completely and make my way into the Women's Bath. I stood in my bathing suit for at least 10 minutes, watching the attendant gawk at me—I was the only non-Asian person in the room, of course, so I suppose I was an interesting specimen. Inside the Bath House was a sauna, some showers, and several pools of water, heated or chilled, as the case may be, to various temperatures. I showered, sat in a tepid pool of water for about minute, and then escaped to the privacy of the empty sauna, before deciding I'd had enough and that it was time I returned to my locker to put on my bathing suit.

Every member was given a robe to put over our swimsuits, and sandals to wear. Carrying my towel, I went to the meeting area, which connected the male and female changing rooms. When everyone was present—there were 4 men, including John, and about 10 women, including myself—we were escorted into the 'water-therapy' room, which is essentially a swimming pool with various jets of water that spray you really hard underwater, acting as a sort of massage. There were about 7 rows of water jets we had to pass through, squatting to let the water hit our legs, primarily. As we went through each row, the streams shot higher and higher up, targeting likewise areas; knees, thighs.

In the same room, as part of the water therapy, there was a basin (it fit about 6 people) with extremely pressurized water which fell from the ceiling above. It acted as a sort of waterfall, pummelling one's back and head. About five minutes into this experience, this violent thrashing, my hair having been beaten out of its ponytail and all over my face, the attendant informed us that it was time for a cold shower. I looked a little incredulous and she laughed.

After we'd all taken our icy showers and returned to the warm pool, we were given floating Styrofoam noodles to rest our legs on, and headgear to keep our faces afloat. The purpose of this exercise was to keep our ears in the water and relax as music was pumped up from beneath the pool. Above our heads, upon the black ceiling, a constellation show was projected. As I floated, occasionally bumping into random others, I listened to the music and watched simulated shooting stars. It did feel surprisingly serene and quiet; no words. Although the ultimate intention of this sort of exercise is to meditate and not think at all, of course, I found myself contemplating how odd it was to be in a room with 15 or so other individuals, none of whom was discharging nonsense or business into cellular phones or issuing obscenities or monotonous blather. No one uttered a single syllable; we all just spun around like space men in a hushed, zero-gravity ballet, staring up at the night stars.

When the lights came on, and we left the pool, we entered a room with long personal sofas. Wearing our robes, and covering our feet with towels, we stretched out as attendants adjusted nozzles directly between our noses and mouths. As they left the room, for five minutes, we lay in the dark, as oxygen was released from the taps. I'm not sure of the exact effects of oxygen—other than that it can make you feel light headed and weightless—but I don't believe I was affected.

When this somewhat odd activity had finished, we were led into very strange rooms where there were mangers filled with hay and white sheets. We were instructed to wrap ourselves in our white sheet, and get into this manger that was somewhat reminiscent of a coffin—it was impossible to see over the edge—and allow the attendants to cover our bodies, with the exception of our faces, with hay. For twenty minutes, we were left to bake in this extremely hot—though I must admit, pleasant smelling— environment. I think the purpose was to sweat out toxins. Very once in a while I could hear people shifting uncomfortably in their wooden boxes, and laughing to myself, in my death-white shroud, in my coffin, I wondered why they didn't just stick us in a sauna. Perhaps, the discomfort and isolation of lying in a manger was meant to channel Jesus...or fragile items in the mail surrounded by Styrofoam packing peanuts—either one, really.

Finally, we were released from our boxes and led to yet another room where we were given mud to put on our faces. We were placed in little pods, which held four people at a time, and waited for the stuff to dry. We were sitting directly opposite a young Korean couple who did not speak much to each other. After ten minutes, a bit restless and considering the oddity of the last two hours, I began to make my jokes, speculating about how maybe they planned to gas us, Auschwitz style… Eventually, the shower-jets in the ceiling began to sputter, then stopped, then sputtered some more. Suddenly, water, icy cold, hit us in the chairs where we each sat. The Korean girl opposite me let out a little shriek. We rinsed the mud off, then, like magic, with a long, drawn out guuuuussssshhhhh-ing sound, the door to our pod opened. I almost expected coloured smoke for dramatic, sci-fi effect.

Finally finished, we put our robes on and went outside to an herb garden where we sipped freshly brewed tea. John and I met up in the lobby and managed to catch a bus that went directly to the airport, where we had stored our bags several hours earlier.

We got home on a Friday night, so it was good to have a few days to ourselves, to reflect. A week is the longest time I've ever been in the constant company of anther human being. Sometimes, it was stressful and worrisome for me, and I found myself craving wordlessness and dusk, some form of obscurity to limit my senses and let me slip into a self-imposed oblivion, without a doubt, one of my greatest talents. As I went to bed that night, listening to the traffic outside my window that never stops, and wishing my air-conditioner was a bit more powerful, I contemplated taking sleeping medication to hurry the anticipated sensation (or lack thereof) along.

Sometimes, as I drift off to sleep, my heart-beat feels too slow—part of my neurotic fear of my physicality, I'm sure. When this happens, and I'm nearly there, perched on the cusp of sleep, my brain seems to screech me awake, and like a catapult, I heave my half asleep body to a sitting position, gasping, but glad to have evaded death for yet another moment…clever me. But this night, with thoughts of Jeju and John and water and stars swirling in and out of the usual paranoia, the sounds of the traffic and the air-conditioner and my own breathing overwhelmed me, as noise tends to do, and swallowed my consciousness, leaving everything silent and black.

They waited for the bus without knowing if it would make them even more lost, on the island, in the hush.

Half hour later, after being turned down by several taxi drivers who refuse to try to understand his attempt to speak Korean, frustrated and tired, the tension still unvoiced, they sit beside each other on the bus. She sits next to the window and immediately pulls a book out of her bag, her old stand-by, the taciturn alternative to speech. She'd always found staring quietly at word combinations she'd probably never use, archaic or oddly twisted phrases, seeped in imagery and meaning, quite calming; much more preferable to the sound of her own voice, which she's always considered very nasal and shaky, too young and too low. For ten minutes she tries to read, uncomfortable with her decision to do so, conscious of the fact that to the man to her left, something must be said. She tries to think of something to say, but her mind is a blank and incapable of anything but consuming the piece of literature before her. More time passes and the girl begins to entertain thoughts of commenting randomly about the scenery or the names of stores.

When she finally looks over, the man is sitting in his seat with his cap pulled over his head. He is crying. She begins to panic, but still feels rather incapable of speech. She begins to wish herself capable of chattiness, just turn it on and off like some girls; to have a flirtatious relationship with language as witty words and whole sentences, even, are rolled around and propelled forward with the most minor flick of the tongue. She closes her book, which is about a deadly lullaby, a culling song, which kills the children who hear it; noxious reverberations of the voice, she thinks. She grabs his hand and squeezes tightly. He sniffs. The anger is gone. She rests her head on his chest and whispers, "I'm sorry." And, on this particular bus, in the middle of nowhere, winding along narrow roads, where outside the windows, farmers squat, picking rice plants from ditches, a beautiful hush prevails and nothing needs to be said at all.