Ode to Girl Power

It's official.

The Spice Girls are coming back for a reunion tour that will TAKE THEM ALL OVER THE GLOBE! When I heard about this, I immediately went to the website, registered for my tickets--which will be distributed at random--and sat back, puzzled. Was I really excited about this? For some reason, the sheer insanity of a possible Spice Girls reunion had just gotten the better of my TOEFL-essay-burdened mind and had swept me up into girl power once more.

I do hold a great deal of affection for the Spice Girls. But just about as much affection as I do for spam, McDonald's, topless beaches, Mary Roach Guildbeaux, and all the other ridiculous things on this blog. Sure, I always found Posh quite fetching back in the day with dark hair and was in awe of Sporty's acrobatic skills. Or how about when Scary would create two horns on her head with that wild head of hair? The Spice Girls had invaded the States with a vengeance and I didn't quite mind being recolonized by this 5-some.

I was late jumping onto the spice wagon. When they came out with their debut in the States, I was still into loud alternative, loud ska, loud rock, loudanything. Although my first album purchases were No Doubt's Tragic Kingdom and Alanis Morisette's Jagged Little Pill, respectively, even those were relegated to the back of the cd binder as the Smashing Pumpkins took center stage in the cd player. I was still wearing clothes 3 sizes too big and I was just too angry, too serious, and too insecure to give the Spice Girls even a fleeting glance.

It wasn't until the Spice Girls became the SPICE GIRLS that I jumped head first into the phenomenon. At this point, it was clear that they weren't out there trying to be taken seriously as artists. They were just 5 women--only later to reduced to 4--who were part of some global pop megalomania, out to have a good time. Watching the spice girls fall further and further from their reign as pop royalty, I found myself liking them even more. No matter how bad any subsequent album or single could be, they were and forever would be the SPICE GIRLS. At that point, is it even worth it to care? Is it even worth it to take yourself seriously? Other people lamented the lack of pop ingenuity that defined their early career; I applauded it, as if I, too, were in on the joke.

I'm currently renavigating my way through Proust's Swann's Way. I first read the first installment of In Search of Lost Time my freshman year of college and it all whooshed over my head. Funny how years later, inside a McDonald's eating my weekly Big Mac value meal that my own madeleine materialized. I've already been reminded of my affinity for bad pop music with a recent run-in with S Club 7, but now to have the company of 5 even more special ladies during my Big Mac lunch. And best of all, it wasn't one of their greatest hits. Wannabe, Say You'll Be There, 2 Become 1, etc. etc...they could have been singing to anybody. No. Instead it was Track 7 off of their sophomore album Spiceworld, "Do It." Even I had forgotten that this song ever existed. I may have been sitting their taking in more than half of my daily caloric intake, but mentally, I was back in high school remembering how none of us were too cool for school and that it really was ok to just lay back and have some fun.

Ode to British Cheese

I was just watching a program here in Korea and the opening credits were accompanied by this song:

Never heard it? Probably better that you haven't. It's S Club 7. Same manager as the Spice Girls. Same cheese. But they didn't quite bombard the United States like the Spice Girls. People had to actually seek this stuff out and have it creep up in the bargain bins at music stores, kind of like how rats brought the bubonic plague. It wasn't until they came out with their more adult contemporary pop friendly "Never Had a Dream Come True" that they were allowed American airplay. How quickly we've vaccinated ourselves from this British invasion and opened our doors to British music with a bit more pedigree.

Sad part is, as the show was starting, I found myself singing along to the song. I know all the words to S Club 7's "Bring it All Back."

Am I proud?

No.

It just reminds me of how badly I don't want to become a grown up.

Ode to Soul

People really like lyrics. I look at people's facebook profiles and on the favorite quotes section, I often see lyrics. I only know they're lyrics because I've heard the song. Most of the time it's ironic--some terribly cheesy song that's given a dose of gravity due to the sheer absence of any music. Other time's the facebook member is serious. These words are uplifting. They make me happy. They're brilliant. So the facebook member might say.

I've never been one to latch onto lyrics. In fact, I rarely hear the lyrics of a song on first listen. Once I've heard the song several times, I sing along to the song and stumble my way through the lyrics inserting unknown words with a "hmm" or "uhh" in the correct pitch. It all sounds good in my head when I'm driving by myself but I'm sure it appears unsettling to observers.

I don't think a single one of my favorite songs is a favorite because of its lyrics. One song I rediscovered while in Spain was Aretha Franklin's "Giving Him Something He Can Feel." I still don't really know what that "something" is or if it's a love song or a woman-scorned song. I've never had those experiences before. But the introductory bass line was and still is powerful enough to seduce me into the rest of this queen of soul's crooning. This isn't the first time I've been seduced by the powers of soul and rest assured, I have no idea what the lyrics in these favorite songs even mean. I guess I could just take the time to really read through the lyrics, but somehow I feel like that would be taking away part of the mystique.

So imagine my surprise when I see this one lazy afternoon in Madrid:

Ok, so it wasn't really this. I saw the music video; this I found while furiously searching for any video recording on youtube. Her name is Beverley Knight. She sings soul. Does anyone really sing soul anymore? I'm sure many die-hards would say no. I'm hesitant to say that she sings soul because then I would feel like I was giving myself some sort of musical authority. So I'll just say that I think this is soul. Only because listening to this song gave me the same shivers, the same confusing goosebumps that I had when listening to some of Aretha's greats. Confusing only because--as I said earlier--the lyrics mean nothing to me. Korean music has never given me shivers or goosebumps. Actually, once I got shivers but I think it was because I was just appalled.

I quickly downloaded every song off of this album, "Music City Soul." I would've purchased it but the album wasn't for sale in the States nor in Spain. So I think my downloading is justified. I also downloaded many of her previous songs; she is, after all, a multi-platinum recording artist in her native England. Her previous work, however, didn't quite move me and feels overproduced--desperate attempts to get sufficient airplay. And even a new single off of this album was just released with the same overproduction that reeks of casio keyboards and bad R&B. Beverley, please stop. You have found a good place with this album which you recorded in live sessions throughout the course of 5 days. I know it. You know it. I know you knew it when you were making this album.

You make me want to do greater things with my voice, Beverley. Greater things that my voice will never achieve, in part because I'm a man and you are a woman and also because I'm just not that great at singing. But I know what it would sound like if I did achieve it. You make me feel like I understand myself even when I'm singing "hm's" and "um's". And that's why I think you--along with aretha, marvin, otis, and al--have and are soul.

An Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini

That she only wore HALF of to the beach. I don't think I have to say which half. When I took my weekend away to Alicante I had two things on my mind: the beach and my allergies. I had been told that my allergies would disappear in this coastal port town and lo and behold, they did. It was marvelous. But even more marvelous was Playa de San Juan just a mere 10 minute walk from the place I was staying. Now I'm not much of a beach person and I didn't even go into the water that weekend, but there is something quite remarkable about seeing families and friends gather together under the sun for some rest and relaxation. Perhaps a little TOO much relaxation?

The nation turned upside down when Janet had her wardrobe malfunction and who still doesn't get a good laugh at Tara Reid's red carpet mishap. I mean, jeez louise, they're just body parts. But after my umpteenth encounter with a bare chest I was...not bothered, but...confused. If a couple of ladies can frolic freely bare-chested on the shoreline, if a mother can suntan topless next to her husband and children, all just a pond's length away, what's the big deal?

Growing up there were few things I knew about Europe. All I knew was that there was a place in France where the naked ladies danced and that the European women were known to roam the beaches sans bikini top. We never questioned the fact or fiction of it. In our pre-pubescent/pre-adolescent years, we would take all we could get in a pre-thong song era where a madonna video could send ripples of scandal. By the way, I miss that Madonna. But I guess that's what happens when you have kids and dedicate your life to children's books and third-world adoptions.

As I said before, my first reaction to the plethora of bare chests wasn't shock or intrigue, just plain confusion. Now, ALL the women didn't have their tops off but a fair share of them did. What was keeping the others from taking theirs off? After all, who wants that annoying tan line? For instance, if we saw a guy at the beach frolicking beachside with a shirt on, we would think he had something to hide--ok, so the frolicking might be problematic in and of itself but I think anyone's allowed to frolic on the shoreline. But that wasn't really the case with the women who chose to keep them on; those with bikini tops seemed just as much in place at the beach as those without. So I ask again, what is the big deal? Why can't we bare (almost) all like they do in Spain? Are these Europeans really just a bunch of liberal crazies with too much siesta on their hands?

I'm not sure what sort of legislation the United States has on any kind of public nudity but I do know that in Spain public nudity is legal. Technically, you could walk down the Raval in Barcelona completely naked and not be in danger of any public indecency charges. I guess this issue of coverage and lack thereof in history and contemporary culture is a much contested and researched one; no need to go into that now. But while I was in Spain, I did have someone tell me that I was way too uptight. I don't remember exactly what it was I said or what my reaction was to that remark, but I guess it's true that I am prone to having a stick up my arse at times. That stick up my arse may cause me to be uptight but it's that same stick that's allowed me to live a traffic-ticket-free life. And maybe that's why I find a bit of comfort coming here to Korea. Because here, everyone else has a stick up the arse and I'm the one that gets to wear my bikini sans top--figuratively speaking ofcourse.

**I didn't take my camera to the beaches of Alicante for fear that sand would get in my camera but here are pictures of the beaches in Barcelona**

Happy Birthday, Blog!

I started this blog as a way to record random goings on during my travels in Korea and one year later I find myself in the very same position. Back in Korea and back to the blog, who knew that in one year I would once again be embarking on my journey to TOEFL education and Korean gym fitness?

But third time's a charm right?

I had plenty of charming experiences the first and second time around so who knows what sort of surprises a third visit will present. I will keep you posted.

Until classes and life start full swing in about a week, I'm going to wax nostalgic about my time in Spain. Because as painful, and lonely, and allergenic as it was at times, I can't help but feel a slight pain in my heart as I look at all my photos from the trip. So maybe my Lonely Planet was right about one thing. I did fall in love with Madrid. I can't say it was always pretty but then again when you're really FALLING for/to/from anything, when is it ever pretty?

In the spirit of my original title for this blog, I'm going to try really hard to stay positive on this blog. Complaints no more. Odes abound.

So here's to you, Madrid. And yes, even to you, Barcelona.

Afternoon Delight

After one beer, two enchiladas, three chicken fajitas, and two scoops of quite possibly the most incredible mango ice cream ever...

I am satisfied.

'Twas time that I gave into my gastronomic desires and did something to distract myself from my first ever allergy attack. Too bad I forgot my camera.

Now time for a siesta.

Should Have Gone To...

Stockholm

Breaking Down...Almost

I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And I've seen Almodovar's rendition of what women do when they are on the verge: they burn things, throw phones through windows, try to jump off buildings, and put prescription drugs in gazpacho. I only searched frantically for return trips home a week or two early had somehow arrived at the point where spending that amount of money actually seemed worth it. Maybe it would have been worth it. I only have a week in the States before it's off to Korea again and I've already scheduled a short trip to Austin. It'll all be a New York minute in sleepy Texas.

I'm better now. And by "better" I mean that I've decided to stay and save myself the trouble of a wallet full of airline woes. People troubles, language troubles, and roommate troubles aside, I'm not going to give up like this. One hamburger and a side of fries and onion rings later, I was planning out my last couple weeks in Madrid and pining over overpriced clothes and shoes online.

I've already gotten over the fact that I'm not as extroverted as I want to be. I keep thinking of certain friends and asking myself, "What would ______ do?" But thought never follows through to execution and I resign myself to going to the park alone or searching for a good movie to watch. What troubles me the most is how close these "tough" times have gotten into breakdown territory. I don't think I've ever really had a breakdown, but then has any of us?

When I first read about the Virginia Tech shootings on the New York Times, I was completely shocked. And then I continued to check the Times as the saga unraveled over the course of the following days/weeks in what seemed a disturbingly formulaic manner. Were they releasing the information as an imitation of a previous law & order episode, or was the media frenzy inadvertently setting up the next perfect episode? Nevertheless, an unfortunate soul had been pushed beyond the verge and America had to deal with another "breakdown" with devastating consequences.

A couple days ago I had the sudden craving for Taco Cabana. It was intense. Like pregnant lady intense. There was no tex-mex trigger; it just happened on my walk home from class. I could picture the haphazard wrapping of aluminum foil, the bean and cheese mix inside the warm tortilla...the smell...the touch...everything. Whilst salivating ravenously, I had the urge in my fingers, tingling sensations running up arms, to grab someone by the neck and yell, "GET ME SOME TACO CABANA!!!!!!!!" It was all really uncalled for and ofcourse I didn't strangle anyone.

Earlier in the week I had the burning desire to throw my notebook at a group of girls in my Spanish class. This isn't completely unwarranted. On certain days, there are up to 5 German girls--in a class of about 8 total. Mind you, this is a Spanish class and yet these girls speak in German among themselves, WHILE the teacher is speaking. And ofcourse to me, it's all talk of "streudel" and "bratwurst"; who knows what they're saying? I contemplated telling them to shut up but somehow a notebook to the face and perhaps a pen to follow up seemed more appropriate. Remember...I was just on the verge.

Almodovar has an incredible way of making the crazy and abnormal seem completely humane and compelling. Even when a woman tries to kill her husband in the airport, you don't want to send her to an insane asylum; you just want to give her a hug and tell her everything's going to be ok. But I wonder. How long will it be until my nerve tinglings catch up with my brain and I'm suddenly pushed over the edge? It would comfort me to know that I'm not the only that may potentially get my gun license revoked because of taco torture and classroom hit and run.

Hello, Yellow

When I was an elementary student and a lone asian face in middle of nowhere texas, the other kids had a little saying. They would pull the corners of their eyes and move them in time to a sing-song of "Chinese, Japanese, Korean." For Chinese they would push their fingers up creating a downward slant with their eyes; for Japanese they would pull the corners of their eyes down creating an upwards slant; and for Korean they would pull the corners back up to normal creating a horizontal slit with their eyes.

I was never really offended by this routine. I was too young to know what racism was and I was more confused why Korean eyes were somehow a half-way point between Chinese and Japanese. Since then, I've yet to experience the feeling of being the lone Asian...until now. That's a bit of a lie. But I'll explain.

There's an expression here in Spain: "Trabajar como un chino." Work like a Chinese person. Virtually all of the Asians here in Madrid are Chinese and fairly recent immigrants who live in the "seedy" neighborhood of Lavapies--which borders my street. They live here with all the other immigrants from Latin America, Africa, and the Middle East. And as far as I've seen, and confirmed by Spaniards that I've met, they keep to themselves. The middle-aged couples run wholesale stores, convenient stores, or restaurants that serve bar-style Spanish food. Someone told me that there are laws that keep businesses from staying open all day, but if there weren't, the Chinese surely wouldn't stop working. These Chinese immigrants are Spaniards. They are Madrilenos. Just not the ones I had come to know via my Lonely Planet.

On one night out, a stocky girl in semi-goth waddled over to me and asked in a thickly accented English,"Where are you from?" I told her in Spanish, "I'm from Texas!!!!!" (I was a little tipsy). I knew exactly what she wanted to know, but I wasn't going to give it to her that easily. She asked again (this time in Spanish) "No, no, where are your parents from?" "They're from Los Angeles," I replied. She kept on asking me where "I was from" and finally I conceded and told her Korea because quite frankly I had lost interest in the conversation on first waddle. "Oh ok! Korean. We think you look very Tokyo. My friends and I bet that you were from Tokyo." I hope the winners of the bet got a good deal.

I should have been flattered. I love Tokyo. I've never been, but I'll admit a sense of pride when people in Korea tell me I dress like a Japanese. But it wasn't flattering. I've been called chino on the streets in the most endearing of tones--"chinito!!!"--as if I were a Japanese school girl. And I've also been muttered to as a chino or given sideways glances as if I were the SARS. I'm often the only Asian person in an entire club or bar, and by the way I've been treated at times, I could see why the Chinese here don't make more efforts to assimilate.

Ah, I just used the word assimilate. I promise I won't delve too far into issues yellow. But here in Spain, it's all downward and upward slanted eyes; the only exposure they have of koreans is a potential nuclear threat. There's no room for a Korean that's not an immigrant Chinese or a high-rolling Japanese tourist. But every time I walk by a small bar/grill on the way home and see the chinese owners behind the counter with the Spanish customers, I can't help but think of my mom back at home in her own deli with all her customers. I definitely feel a connection with this community, further evidenced by fleeting moments of eye-contact with other Chinese on the streets, and at the same time I feel the need to dissociate myself from this group that's so looked down upon by the hard-partying madrilenos. The story of my life: wanting to belong, but having to reject. After all wouldn't you rather be, as the Spaniards would put it, a funky Tokyo than a seedy Chinese?

Stomping Grounds

The summer before I started college I was determined to be able to run a mile without stopping. During my breaks from work, I would go to the nearby park and push myself to finish a mile. Just one little mile under the oppressive heat of the midday Texas sun.

I remember struggling to finish that one lap around the park and thinking to myself, "how did this happen?" I used to be quite the star athlete back in the day--don't laugh. I'm serious. I was a force to be reckoned with on the kickball and wallball circuit back in elementary school. I won several sprints at the Aledo Intermediate School Field Day AND...if that weren't enough, I won the Barnyard Race with my partner in crime (combination of potato sack race, wheelbarrow race, and balance-a-potato-on-a-spoon race). So yes, I will toot my own horn and say that I was on the fast track to high school jock-dom. And here I found myself, the lone runner, in a grass field park, showered in my own sweat, trying to finish...a mile.

Suffice it to say that I can run a mile now. More than a mile if you want. I'm no cross-country star or marathoner but I've taken quite a liking to running. I don't know what about it I like so much; perhaps the fact that you're constantly moving, trying to get somewhere. Something about it feels very much "at home." I don't know why. Falling into rhythm, listening to my ipod, sweating in the sun. It's all very comforting. Even when I look at my anorexic (as the tabloids would say of Nicole or Lindsay) wrists and arms and think "i could really use some more upper body work," it's still comforting.

Since my amateur days pre-college I've been able to feel this comfort, this feeling of being "at home" all over the world. There's nothing better than putting yourself into a routine, whether it be for a mere 30 minutes or over the course of an entire year. A list of my past stomping grounds: Austin, TX; Amherst, MA; Boston, MA; Manhattan, NY; San Francisco, CA; Seoul, Korea...

And now Madrid, Spain. Some pictures of where I've spent time pumping endorphins.

Who's in Your Lonely Planet?

On the cover of my Lonely Planet Madrid is a picture of a young man and woman kissing passionately in the rain contrasted with a photo of a hallway of some old, traditional building, symmetrical columns leading to some unknown destination. Madrid: the perfect mix of contemporary passion and all things traditionally Spanish. I knew this well before I set foot in Madrid, even before I got on board my flight to Spain. Nights before my adventure to Spain, Lonely Planet had already assured me that my 7 weeks would be the best 7 weeks of my life.

People: "The young, laid-back and sassy Madrid of the 21st century is a radically different world to that of the parents and grandparents...Liberated from the shackles that bound their parents, those who grew up in the post-Franco years did so believing that theirs was a world without limits."

Ok, so I'm not quite convinced that every madrileno lives life with a carpe diem attitude, but now I'm curious. If Lonely Planet came make madrilenos sound this good, let's see what it has to say about some other people.

Korea: "Koreans are a people obsessed with nature, and with mountains in particular. Where you travel, you'll see Koreans out in the open air, clad in the latest adventure fashions, pushing ever onward and upward."

I hate climbing mountains.

Barcelona: "...it's always on the biting edge of architecture, food, fashion, style, music and good times...The people, with their exuberance, their creative spirit, their persistent egalitarianism, will fascinate you."

I respectfully disagree. Too many dreadlocks.

Dallas: "Dallas is the most mythical city in Texas, with a past and present rich in all the stuff of which American legends are made."

Only if Tex-mex is considered a legend.

North Korea: North Korea is one of the world's most bizzare countries...a slew of quirky Kim-centric sights are the reasons to visit."

???

I'm not really sure why the series is called "Lonely Planet." According to the Lonely Planet series, everyone everywhere is pretty alright, even in "quirky" North Korea. So what more is there to these guides than a little bit of reassurance for those pre-travel jitters?

Not to say that my Lonely Planet Madrid hasn't been completely useless. But despite the wealth of insider tips, it's failed to explain to me that yes, you will feel lonely regardless of how extensively we gush about the sights and frights. I'm not going to go too much into this, lest this become another complaint box a la summer 2006, but truth be told this past week has been quite lonely. Not just alone; lonely. The one thing that my Lonely Planet didn't really prepare me for. Anyone could have told me this and my mom did question my desires to come here for 7 weeks but somehow I was already lost in my fantasies of livin' la vida loca with these "laid-back and sassy" Madrilenos.

But all is not in vain. Getting to spend enough time to get to the point of "lonely" has taught me that flying solo into all parts of this lonely planet isn't so much fun. I don't if I'm just getting older, bored, antsy to speak english, or hormonal; life is better with a familiar face, if not to make out with in the rain, then to just have by your side.

Pictures of my street and apartment:

A Large Popcorn with EXTRA Butter, Please

I was walking around Barcelona in Parc de la Ciutadella trying to think of something to describe my experience and then I came up with it: movie theater popcorn. This may have been a result of a foul smell and my sudden craving for popcorn. With artificial butter. So hear me out.

Going to the movies has become an EXPERIENCE. Sitting in uncomfortable seats, crying babies in rated-R films, cell phones ringing, and to track back a little further, standing awkwardly in the parking lot post-movie for the parentals. What would American adolescence be without the movie theater? And who hasn't had their share of a collective bucket of popcorn greased, and greased, and greased, and then shaken for equal saturation, and then greased one more. I remember when our local theater put out the do-it-yourself butter machines where you could push a button and saturate to your gastronomic desires.

I've never REALLY been of fan of this popcorny. My mom would never let me touch that shit whenever we went to the movies. In fact, we never got to partake in any of the concessions; only snacks from home that we had to smuggle in like contraband. So how could I not, after years and years of health food snobbery, scoff at those who stand in line for edible styrofoam and butter that could just as well be massage oil?

I think that's how it was in Barcelona. I felt like the non-Spaniards that had all come to live in Barcelona, attracted by the warmer mediterranean weather and the no-worries attitude, were taking part in something foul and excessive. Barcelona is renowned for it's nightlife, but it's the tourists that bring the vigor, not the locals. In fact, the many British, Dutch, German ex-pats I met were just...TOO laid-back for my tastes. These would be those poor souls who don't think twice about the buttered popcorn and finger lick without any guilt. Sure going away to the beach and a land of siestas is nice for a vacation, but to use it as a permanent haven from the work and grind in my own country? No thanks. I'll get on that treadmill and count the miles and calories, i.e. go back to America and worry about what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. A life without worries? I'm sorry...I live by the maxim of worrying about life.

I remember the first time I got movie theater popcorn sans parental supervision. I found it extremely difficult to spread the butter evenly and quite overpriced. But that's what you do when you go to a movie theater right? It's time to escape. But not for me. Too much escaping to a land of overt paradise and you just might throw up. Literally. In a bar. In front of your friends (I still really can't let that one go).

I don't really need Barcelona to get any better for me. In fact, I don't really even want it to get better. But at least now I can say I've tried it. It's part of the whole Europe "experience" right?

Some great flatmates who were biding their time in Barcelona before moving on with their lives:




















































A German, a belgian, a swede, an italian, a dutch, and a fellow american.

Welcome to Barcelona-land

A while ago I proclaimed my love for Barcelona, in fact the locale for my "heart," and a haven for me to "swim" in paella and "drown my solitude in cafe con leche." I'm in Madrid now. My memories of Barcelona consist of having dipped my foot into too-salty paella and drowning my solitude in absolute embarrassment (ok, so I threw up for the FIRST time, IN a bar but only a LITTLE bit, and hey cut me a break; it's barcelona).

It's funny how we create these obsessions with random locations. I just had a talk with a friend of a friend here in Madrid and he has a crazy desire to see things in China. He's British and lives on a farm and is obsessed with China. I on the other hand have no desire whatsoever to set foot in that country. I would rather cradle koalas and box kangaroos in Sydney, Australia.

I think my obsession with Barcelona began before I saw "The Spanish Apartment." I knew they spoke Catalan, but I still loved it. Having battled Catalan, stumbled in Spanish, guarded my belongings from "gypsies" and dabbled in a little bit of nightlife, Barcelona's a-ok. Obsessed? No longer. My feelings for barcelona are, I would say, similar to my feelings for movie theater popcorn. It's there. It's nice. It's comfortable. Beautiful in its outlandish artificial butter and while I enjoy it, I love to scorn those who love it more.

That's the thing about barcelona. It wasn't the city itself that bothered me too much; it was the people, rarely natives. It seemed like everyone and their mother, father, extended family had made the journey to Barcelona. Not only that, hordes of student groups, EVERYWHERE. Italian teenagers with too much gel in their hair, French teenagers with too much gel in their hair, British men with not enough gel or soap...It's as if everyone had bought his ticket to this fantasy land, and I was just another person strapped in for the pretty scenery and thrill rides. Don't get me wrong; Barcelona is beautiful. The weather was a little chillier than usual, but the architecture, the beach...(the park on the other hand smelled AWFUL).

A few pictures of the movie-theater-popcorn magnificence that is Barcelona. An extension of my weak analogy to come soon...

Drag Queens, Drama Queens, and an Unbearable Cold

The stars must not have been aligned correctly for this. If I had gone to see one of those fortune tellers in Korea, she probably would have told me NOT to travel in March. It probably wasn't meant to be and perhaps I could have found a wife back home in Dallas. Nonetheless, I ignored the signs, took them as challenges, and made my way to the Spanish gateway to the rest of Europe.

I started with 4 tickets to see the Scissor Sisters in Dallas the night before my departure to NYC. A 4th could not be found, the 3rd had a death in the family, and the 2nd had a last minute cancellation. And the cheese stood alone. So dilemma #1: should I stay or should I go...to the Scissor Sisters? A day spent desperately trying to sell my tickets on craigslist left me with a suitcase to pack and many things still left to buy. Guess who decided to get in the middle of a drag queen sandwich instead of getting a good night's sleep? Ok, so it wasn't a drag queen SANDWICH but some of them got awfully close while trying to get to the front of the stage. I never understood the appeal there. Is there NOT supposed to be appeal? Is that the irony? I have enough trouble worrying about my mohawk on a windy day.

GRIPS?? As in, grips it and doesn't let go? A blessing in disguise, my flight was cancelled and I spent the day catching up on errands. Errands I had somehow created in preparation for my trip to Spain. This was supposed to be my bout of spontaneity. Spontaneous people don't obsess over which guide book to buy, which shoes to bring, and which ties are necessary for a night out. I also had a slight panic attack after reading the deluge of websites warning of gypsies and pickpockets. No drag...just a lot of drama. Unnecessary drama.

3 days with no sleep, a winter storm, and I end up on my Swissair flight as the SICK one. I DESPISE the sick one. The guy who fidgets in his seat and coughs into his hand. Yeah, some good that does in covering up the germs. That flight was just an incubator for my grossness. Travellers to Zurich, Switzerland, please accept my apologies. And now I sit and flood my insides with hot water at night. I need to get better for this weekend. A swedish guy just moved in and he's really into "house". DEEP house. And he says it just like Arnold Schwarz. I love it.

Pictures soon!

The OTHER other white meat

I never really had a problem with spam. That is, until I publicly professed my love for it and became the object of disdain among my peers circa high school. Was it because spam was "allegedly" meat from a can? Well I always considered it a step up from the equally delectable Vienna sausages. And the Viennese have good taste, no? Afterall, Mozart's from Vienna.

Whatever the reason, I came to hate spam. I hated the idea of spam and the fact that you had to blot cooked spam with paper towels before even THINKING about touching it with a fork. But coming back to Korea, I've realized that I never stopped loving the smell of it and of course...the taste of it.

It's a funny thing, spam. An offshoot of ham, perhaps, but "sp"? What gives? Do those letters stand for "special"? "Spanish"? "Sparkling"? I suppose I could always just look at the ingredients list on the can, but I think it's better not to know, kind of like a hot dog weiner. And I also never knew how it could be prepared as displayed on the label. My mom always just sliced it up and put it in the frying pan (note the above procedure of paper towel blotting). Spam definitely wasn't prime rib in the Park house, but it was substantial. I think it makes quite a swell companion to white rice. Then again, what doesn't.

On the Lunar New Year, it's customary for businesses to give their employees some sort of gift. I saw men in business suits taking home boxes of juice, others with fruit. We at Hoyah Academy received gourmet olive oil. And of course, there were businessmen with boxes of spam. Decorative boxes. With handles. That included multiple cans of spam.

Nobody frowns upon spam here in Korea. Again, it's no prime rib, but it's not the laughing stock of the "so-called" meats. Nobody cares that it's not kosher, and quite frankly, I don't even think anyone cares that spam is an amalgam of....well, I guess nobody really knows the answer to that. Spam is just spam, and the Koreans let it be.

I don't think my taste buds have danced so happily in quite some time. My aunt prepares fried spam for me every now and then. I think it's because they have a spam gift set and no one else in the family cares too much for it. Could it be that I'm enjoying the spam for old time's sake? I guess I'll just have to find out come 20 years or so from now. Anyone care to join me? I'll supply the paper towels.

Third time's...an explosion

I don't find explosions quite charming. So no. Third time certainly would not be a charm. Allow me to back track a bit.

I walked into my kitchen to find once again, and to much alarm, the gas switch turned on. At least, I THINK that's the on position. I cook so rarely in the apartment that I don't even remember what is on and off for the little knob. But I'm pretty sure it's in the on position, my stomach does a couple somersaults, and then I quickly open up the windows. Unfortunately, this isn't the first time this has happened. It happened near the beginning of my stay here in Seoul as a one-room attendant. That's a "studio" apartment for those of you who are not familiar with korean lingo--which would mean most all of you. I've grown up my entire life with electric stoves, and so the idea that the energy input isn't TRULY off until you switch off that second gas switch is just completely foreign to me.

The first time I realized the switch was left on all night, it was right before I was about to prepare another batch of ramen noodles. Imagine that. In that split second, I could have been blown to bits alongside my freeze dried noodles.

"All they found of him were his flannel pajamas and ramen."

And believe me, I've been on Backdraft the Ride at Universal Studios, so I know the protocall when you're surrounded by flames. I think the floor falls out from under you too.

Imagine if my legacy had been as that one TOEFL teacher who blew up in his own studio apartment because he left the gas switch on. I've since abandoned the stove almost completely and resorted to eating out.

I have two more weeks here in Korea. One more week of teaching and then one more week of...nothing. I may cut that last week down so I can rest a bit in the States, binge on tex-mex, perhaps take a week of the Master Cleanse, and then catch the Scissor Sisters in Dallas. All before I head off to the Big Apple and the Apple of Cataluna, aka Barcelona.

I'm not about to let another foolish mistake keep me from making to the other side of the world. If I do leave the switch on again, and my apartment does blow up, just like it has in my lethal imagination, rest assured my ass will make it back West.

My heart belongs in...

BARCELONA.


It's official, ladies and gentlemen.

Come March 20th, I will be swimming in paella and drowning my solitude in cafe con leche. It's an odd feeling to be here in Korea and be purchasing a ticket to a destination on the other side of the world. Call it wanderlust. Call it boredom.


Whatever it is...

I've finally crossed something off my life list.

Quiz Show

I've been quite disappointed with Korean television. Every morning I wake up hoping to catch something uplifting and the only comprehensible program I can find is Sesame Street or a random movie on the movie channel. One morning it was Secretary. Another morning, Blade III. It's just a grab bag of good or bad movies in that short time frame between just-woke-up and I'm-late-for-work. When I return home at night it's either a thrilling night of Deal or No Deal, 1 vs. 100 or if I'm lucky I can rinse my tear ducts with an old episode of the Biggest Loser. As for Korean programming, I usually sit there, unaffected by men with bad haircuts and women who really do look the same. It's not just a Caucasian affliction! We really DO look the same!

There is, however, one program. I don't know when it comes on; it's just happens to come up on the weekends when I sit down with my scrupulously prepared ramen noodles. It's a game show of sorts except the contestants aren't money-grubbing, ass-bearing, aspiring actors; they're middle-schoolers. SMART middle-schoolers. At least the ones left at the end are smart. Kids sit in a grid on the floor and a woman with a pleasing voice calls out questions. Then the students write their answers on their dry-erase boards and hold them up in anticipation of the correct answer. I recall playing a game similar to this. It was called school.

In between certain rounds, the students clear the floor and the teachers of the respective schools and have a competition of their own: jump rope competitions, lip-syncing competitions, who-can-dance-better-in-drag competitions. It's all a big pep rally for...academics. The ousted students cheer on their peers who are left on the grid and eventually the floor clears out save for just one lone student and his/her dry-erase board. I think the point of the game is to get to the final question and answer that correctly, but I've never seen a student reach that level before. The student usually falls just shy of that last question, tears are usually involved, and all of the students surround their champion and console him or her.

Although most of my students lament the extraordinarily strict and rigorous Korean school system, it seems kind of nice that this type of thing is nationally televised in Korea. I've never been on television for playing my clarinet and I certainly didn't get any recognition for my short-lived career as a top UIL speller. My parents never really set me on the track for any sort of televised career. If they had, I'd probably be working out right now instead of releasing meaningless verbal diarrhea onto the world wide web.

Hey you

I haven't forgotten. In fact, I think about ye old blogger almost everyday. Somehow I just can't bring myself to raise my hands to the keyboard and type away to my heart's content. That and a New York Times contributor recently referred to blogging as verbal diarrhea. I must admit, it did make me think twice about complaining about Korea....again.

But you know what? I don't care what a "New York Times" contributor has to say. I just had my first sick day with a bad case of flu/constipation/I-don't-know-what last week and now conjunctivitus has nestled itself nicely into my left eye. If it's diarrhea I have, then by all means, let the verbal diarrhea flow. (that was gross, I know, but I'm not deleting it).

I forgot my USB camera chord once again at my home in Dallas, so pictures won't be in order this time around, unless I can find a relatively cheap USB chord. Dear readers, I like to think that my health is returning and I haven't been pushed under a rock a la LSAT--which by the way, the more I read about Berkeley's law school, the more I want to go.

I hope the USA has been treating you all well. I think of you guys daily while eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and engrossing myself in an episode of Arrested Development.

I promise to complain as much as I can. So much so, that soon enough, all the titles under my "Previous Posts" section will be blog posts written here in Seoul.

See you all real soon.

A House is Not a Home

I've just completed my first week in my first, very own apartment. It's a studio, with a maroon-tiled bathroom and a shower head that hovers over the sink. The few times I have showered in my own bathroom, it's been basically in the middle of the bathroom holding the shower head as to not have it spray out of control all over the toilet paper and the washer, but thankfully, I take most of my showers at the gym. Yes, my washer is inside the bathroom. And no, I haven't done my first load of laundry yet. And the rarely used kitchen is separated from the rest of the living area by a sliding, translucent door that I guess is supposed to create a barrier between the threatening odors of korean food and the rest of the house. The only odors that have crept out of the kitchen are those of the mountain dew cans, neatly lined up beside the sink. I've yet to take them down to the recycling bin outside. And then there's a floor that heats up when I want, and a bed that is positioned perfectly to have a view of the tv with no working remote. The remote actually just doesn't have functioning batteries, but I'm too cheap to go buy new ones.

As you can see, this studio that I would sell my soul to have at this price in New York City is little more than just a place that I can have some peace and quiet after a day of work. I remember being so determined to get a place of my own if I ever did return to Seoul, and now I've got it. I must admit that it is a bit lonely, and I often look at my Subway, McDonalds, or other unfortunate substitute for a home-cooked meal and I can't help but feel like something's amiss. I never envisioned my future as an independent to be riddled with big macs and take out. In fact, not even my summer in New York was reduced to that. That was because I didn't have any money, but I guess we won't go there. I came here chasing money and placing all my eggs in a basket full of middle schoolers. Middle schoolers. That toxic stage of adolescence when you're in the perpetual state of too cool and yet not cool enough. I suppose if I just sat down and thought about that, I would have known that it wouldn't be so much fun.

But it really isn't so bad. I've already had the class from hell and really, it couldn't get any worse (right?). It's just that at times when I'm sitting alone in my apartment, dreaming of what under-5-dollar meal I'll consume the next day, I kind of wish I was sitting on my bed at home, knowing that my dad is watching tv in his room, my brother is incessantly checking his myspace, my mom is rereading the Joel Osteen book, and that in the next few minutes, I'll feel the vibrations from the next plane landing at the airport near our house.