All I want for Chusok is my two front teeth

Sorry I haven't written in a while, but it's been a difficult week. It's the end of the month, which means reviews, class progress checks, and student evaluations. You know, teacher stuff.

It's also the end of my first month here, which means (strictly unofficially, of course), my own evaluation, which, well...didn't go as well as I was hoping.

Things, by and large, are fine, but I have this one class. It's a prep class for the TOEFL, or Test Of English as a Foreign Language. This is the test that American universities use to evaluate foreign applicants' English proficiency. As you can imagine, this is of very great concern to hyper-competitive Korean parents -- and therefore of concern to the ESL hagweons that cater to them and to the teachers they employ who are all expected to be able to teach TOEFL prep.

My class sucks and I'm bad at it. I'll say that now.

Andy and I had a special little sit-down at the beginning of the month. There were textbooks and schedules and prep tests and such, and there were essays and oral exams and special evaluation forms. What there wasn't was any hint of what the reality of the class would be: nothing at all for an entire week, then two spindly thirteen-year-olds, bone tired from a full day of summer school and completely uninterested in talking, let alone poring over two huge TOEFL textbooks that, incidentally, they don't have. And there's some third book I'm supposed to be using that has fuck-all to do TOEFL or anything else. And I'm supposed to be giving essay homework over the weekends (weekends that are already packed full for these poor bastards with more school). TOEFL? Forget about it, they're not even going to be taking the damn thing for like, five more years. So I abandoned the textbook and spent day after day just trying to pry a little enthusiasm or at least three consecutive words out of these kids. Six o'clock: TOEFL prep. Seven o'clock: slit my fucking wrists.

And then one of the little bastards ratted me out to Andy, saying we hadn't done anything with the textbooks. Andy came down on me, wanting to know what's gong on. Long story short, I'm on something like probation with this class, with a strict schedule and daily reports back to Andy on what we did in class. To be honest, the class goes a bit better now that I know what I'm supposed to be doing. A bit.

I wouldn't really complain, except that Andy's tact in all of this is a bit...nonexistant. I'm willing to give some latitude to the inevitable insensitivity of another culture, but this is a little... Let me explain.

So last weekend, Haseyo and I went to Haeundae. A good solid day of insanely crowded beach, drinking in public, and the seriously kute and bikini-clad. There was a bandstand and some incomprehensible Korean hip-hop festival. I swam in the South Sea. Haseyo scared girls. It was great.

Roundabout nine or so, Haseyo had had enough and decided to head home. I wasn't quite ready to pack it in yet, so I decided to find this ex-pat bar someone stateside had told me about (O'Brien's, Ronnie, the place Jenn's friend Andrew runs). It took a little wandering around, and a train ride, but I turned it up. Decent place. Surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night, but I needed someplace a bit chill after the crush of humanity that was Haeundae. I was totally planning to hang out for a beer or two and then go, but then there was this game of pool and a game of darts, and an extra pitcher someone thought I oughta have, and the next thing I know, it's two in the morning, and it's Andrew and me and a couple of guys sitting around arguing about who fucked up the twentieth century more, England or America. Finally Andrew goes, right, I'm off, the bar's yours -- which I thought was really quite wonderful and irresponsible of him.

It is important that you understand that I was done drinking by now. I was too sleepy (as were my late-night compatriots), so I grabbed some couch time for a few hours and woke up a bit past seven in the morning, just in time to catch the train back home.

I am, at this point, about five hours sober. Hungover? Yes. Tired? Like a dog. Did these things contribute to the fact that, on the big-step/false landing thing halfway down the stairs in Gaya Station, I lost my footing and took an impressive header down to the bottom? Probably. Was I drunk? No, but I wish to Christ I had been.

I'm not entirely sure (as, I suppose, we rarely are when these sorts of accidents happen) how all this occurred, but the next thing I knew, the subway cleaning lady was picking me up off the floor, chattering concernedly in Korean and pressing a wad of Kleenex to my face. It kept coming away bloody, and I had grit in my mouth, which I figured out pretty quickly were chunks of teeth. Super. So I thanked the lady (in Korean, which I guess meant my head was okay) and rode the train home, through the transfer, all the while clutching a handful of tissues to what was undoubtedly, judging from the stares from all the Sunday morning commuters, a gnarly chunk out of my face. What a fucking morning.

And then I got lost on my way home. Fucking brilliant.

When I finally did get back to the apartment, I took a shower and took stock of the damage. Looks like I took the fall on my left side: I had a really nasty cut over my eye, plus some bruises and scrapes; two badly chipped teeth (though, oddly, no bloody nose or bit lip); a cut on my shin that bled freely, but on closer inspection wasn't very serious; and a very sore and probably dislocated shoulder. Fuckit, I said, and went to bed.

I got about two hours before I finally decided that something really ought to be done about my shoulder. And this is where the sobering reality of being in Korea really began to sink in. I needed to go to the hospital, but I needed someone, preferably Andy, to come with me, since I don't speak Korean, and I still don't have my Alien Registration card. I don't have a phone, so I couldn't call him, and it was Sunday, so the hagweon was closed. What ended up happening was I got hold of Haseyo, whose plans that day were conveniently canceled, and together we tried to call Andy. No luck, but Haseyo knew a student who worked nearby and maybe she could come with us and translate. She did, and she helped raise Andy, too, who met us at the hospital and eventually got me taken care of and patched up.

(I gotta say, though, Haseyo was a real mensch with the hospital thing. He stuck through until Andy showed up and I was well in hand. And I don't know what I would've done if he hadn't thought of getting Jessica, his student. I still call him Haseyo, but it isn't ironic anymore.)

All told, things are more or less okay. The cut took stitches (it's going to leave a bitchin' scar), and I'm in the process of getting my teeth capped. My shoulder turned out not to be dislocated, just badly bruised, and my brain isn't broke.

But Andy, man. I told him what happened, and I'm convinced he thinks I'm some sort of drunken reprobate. The TOEFL thing doesn't help. And after the hospital and stitches and everything, there was never any question about me not being at work the next day. I shouldn't complain, I suppose, given that he did, after all, come out (eventually) and take control of things. And I know sympathy isn't his job, but still. God, I'm sick of his shit.

Sick. Sick of Andy, sick of the hagweon, sick of teaching. Sick of wincing when I raise my arm, sick of not being able to bite things, sick of being stared at and asked what happened. I'm sick not being able to speak Korean, sick of speaking English like I'm talking to four-year-olds, sick of not knowing anyone, sick of gimchi with every fucking meal, sick of week-long laundry days, sick of losing sleep to mosquitos, sick of having no money and no ID or phone or TV or Internet so I have to spend my days off back at work just so I can answer my goddamn email. I'm fucking sick of Korea, all right? Joke's over. I miss you guys and I want to come home.

I don't mean all that, of course. But I needed to say it. I mean, I knew Korea wasn't going to be paradise forever. That was honeymoon, and this, for better and for worse, is real life. And I've got eleven more months of it, and while they won't be like the first month here, I also know they won't be as bad as this week was. I'll clean up all right, and I'll get teaching sorted out. And things will be a lot more tolerable once I get paid, which is soon.

So, sorry for the downer post. But I hit the Homesick Wall, and I needed a little therapy. I'll be happier when I have money and new teeth.