US, US, baby

Planning my trip to Korea, my American friend wanted to know the dates I’d be staying at her apartment, so she could let her weekly house cleaner know. As soon as she sent off that e-mail, she sent another saying how weird she felt writing about a house cleaner and that she hoped I didn’t think she was being snobby.

Of course I didn’t, but her nervousness is pretty representative of middle-class, middle America (but in her case, Hawaii)…the places where housekeepers and nannies aren’t common. Where stay-at-home moms are really stay-at-home moms and don’t also hire a housekeeper, nanny, and a chef to assist them.

But I knew that wasn’t the case everywhere. The East and West Coasts, as well as many places in the South have middle-class neighborhoods where every house has a cleaner and nanny. And I knew that domestic workers in Asia were pretty common too.

However, I guess I’ve not really experienced it first-hand so much until my arrival here in India. As the office is providing my room and a living stipend, they also take care of so much more for me. Honestly, I do nothing for myself. There are girls who manage the office and wash all the dishes as well as cook any foods we might request (and who are mighty good cooks, I should add). There are two women who come every Monday to do the laundry and clean up the bathrooms. There are even two girls who come every day between 11:30 and 1 to serve us piping-hot morning tea…and then come back at around 4 to collect those dirty cups and pour us more hot tea in fresh cups.

Part of me wants to feel bad that these women/girls must do domestic service for the classes above them. But the other part of me knows that the city is swelled with people who aren’t working but had to come here because it is one of the few “safe” cities in the North East; so hiring these women/girls means they’re able to make a living away from the violence that is prevalent in many other places.

And then the other part of me is just happy that I can be lazy about cleaning up after myself. While becoming addicted to tea in the meantime.

I was definitely surprised that Seoul didn’t have a big 4th of July celebration. No, not because I think every place should celebrate it…but there were a gazillion advertisements I saw around the city for places celebrating Canada Day (July 1). And with all the military families and American teachers here, I was sure there would be something. One bar that served cupcakes with sparklers? A little fireworks display at the military base that other Yanks could come to? Or an expat group that grilled steaks at a park? If there was, I couldn’t find it…

Although I had a good day, come nightfall, it was a little sad. So far I’ve made some friends throughout this journey, but I didn’t think about how busy I’d been in Seoul, until I realized I haven’t made any American friends here; this was the first holiday I could recall ever spending totally alone. And the knife-turn of it all is that the 4th is one of my favorite holidays, coming in right after Thanksgiving (geez…how American am I that I only love holidays that no other country celebrates?). Knowing that the past five 4ths have been split between my pals in LA and NY, and I always had a great time — on a cruise on the Hudson River, making my first new LA friends, crashing random parties in Hermosa Beach, catching up with the college crew on an island off Manhattan, or burning to a crisp on the beach — meant that the night of just me and myself was that much more magnified.

Hopefully when November rolls around, I’ll have found some people I can force into eating turkey and dressing with me. I figure American or not, nobody can turn down a free home-cooked meal (however, if I’m in India then, it may be tofurkey and dressing).

I’ve always looked fondly upon teddy bears. On the day my parents picked me up at the airport, my mom and dad stopped to buy a toy to greet me with. They picked up a teddy bear “because it was made in Korea…just like you,” or so my mom says.

That bear is still around (and in quite good shape, I must add), and it’s always made me like its brothers, sisters, and cousins. And because of my affection for bears, I’ve always known the legend of how they came about: When Theodore “Teddy” Roosevelt was on a bear hunt, they searched and searched for a bear. Eventually, they came about one (some accounts say an old bear, others a baby bear) and the hunting dogs grabbed into it and those with Roosevelt captured the bear and invited him to shoot. The president said he couldn’t shoot a captive, injured bear, and the incident then inspired a political cartoon with a sad, weak little bear in it. (Some accounts say the president did, however, order the bear be put down to end its painful injuries). So in 1902 when cute cuddly bears made in the US and Germany started sprouting up across America, they were of course called “teddy bears.”
Great story…and one that I wish I could’ve read at the museum. Alas, I couldn’t read much at the museum. Most of it was in hangul and sans translations. And I don’t know if I’d really call the museum a “museum” either. Sure, it did display some teddy bears throughout time — including American favorites like Care Bears, Teddy Ruxpin, and the Beanie Babies — but the majority of the floor was dedicated to bear displays, I guess they could be called. It was much more of a show than a museum. It was kind of like seeing what the world would look like if it had been teddy bears that had been at those historical moments or been those historical figures or been featured in famous pieces of art.

Here are just a few of my favorites:

bears on board the Titanic (note Jack and Rose in the “I’m the King of the World” pose)

bears battling it out on the beaches of Normandy

Elvis bear (who I bet doesn’t like Hound Dogs either)

one giant leap for bearkind on the moon

remember the Terra-Cotta Warriors I saw in China?

hmmm…
Mona Lisa bear

bear-y good art, eh?

I’m ever-so-happy (kind of like that pink donut) that America has succeeded at exporting our love of donuts to other countries. Although there are some Krispy Kreme/Krack places around Seoul, there are definitely more Dunkin’ Donuts. These were the two I had at the Gimpo Airport. And I ate them completely guilt free…knowing that the weight I’ve lost from all my hiking and walking would keep me from gaining the 13 pounds I put on in my “summer of Krispy Kremes.”

But just so you know, they’re not EXACTLY like American donuts. The pink one was stuffed with pink creamy stuff, not jelly. And the chocolate one didn’t quite melt in my mouth…but then again, I can’t remember the last time I had American Dunkin’ Donuts, so I don’t remember if theirs do either…

The DMZ tour outside of Seoul was not as tense as I expected. In fact, it was far more sad than scary. Sure, we couldn’t wear heels or slip-ons in case we had to make a run for it, and we couldn’t point or make gestures to the North Korean/Democratic People’s Republic of Korea’s guards lest they misinterpret them and decide to take aim (well, that’s my guess as to why we couldn’t); still though, with all the American media stories about North Korea’s danger and the need for the country to dismantle its nuclear program, the area was not the electrically charged place I expected.

A large US Army helicopter easily came and went. An American soldier cheerfully greeted our South Korean/Republic of Korea veteran tour guide. The South Korean guards smiled for pictures with tourists. White cranes flew overhead on their way to feed in the rice paddies that are ever-so protected.

Sure, the straight-faced South Korean guards standing at the constant Tae Kwon Do stance creates a sense of how important the area is. As do the multiple passport checks and the miles and miles of barbed-wire fence. But as I stood at the Joint Security Area (jointly secured by US/South Korean troops on one side and North Korean on the other) in the DMZ and later Freedom Bridge (above), one of the bridges where prisoners of war were exchanged after the Korean War, with its messages for loved ones and hopes of reunification, I realized that the Demilitarized Zone isn’t a South Korean tourist spot because of its historical significance, or because they’ll get the thrill of being in “communist” Korea, or even because it’s the closest they may get to a war zone. But a large part of its popularity is being in a place where residents can recall the pain that exists from being a divided people.

I’m tired. My sister just left after her week-long visit which had us traipsing all over Seoul and visiting Jeju Island, Korea’s version of Hawaii (thus why there were so few posts last week). But running all over is just part of my exhaustion.

Before starting our first full day in Jeju, I decided to take advantage of the hotel’s gym and get in my first real workout of the trip. Arriving to the small workout area, I walked in to see three men all clad in kelly green shorts and jerseys look up at me. It was two of Iraq’s national football/soccer players and one of their coaches. I wasn’t too surprised…I’d seen signs throughout the hotel directing them where to eat and players and coaches waiting in the lobby for their buses. They were there to play Korea’s team (who was also staying at our hotel) in a “friendly” exhibition match at the nearby stadium that had been used for the 2002 World Cup.

Although I’d planned on just doing a run on the treadmill, I decided not to once I realized the Iraqi player would be running right next to me and could easily see my horrendously low speed and laugh. Instead, I decided to work on my upper body and settled into the butterfly press machine. Sadly, though, my struggle with the machine was probably more laughable than my slow speed. For some reason, I couldn’t figure out why it had multiple points of rotation or even which handles I should use.

Seeing my mishaps, the coach came over and explained how I should do it. After seeing I’d figured it out, he decided to put me through a workout. In between directions to the players, he’d walk over and adjust the weight on various machines and tell me how many reps and sets I should do after finishing on the machine I was using. Although I’d done my share of bench presses, I figured I should do as he said…I mean it’s not every day I have an Olympic-level coach working with me. Seeing their coach helping me, the players looked at me curiously but said nothing. I wondered what they were thinking of me and my obviously American accent…are they pro-American or do they just wish we’d get the hell out of their country? Although I really wanted to ask, I figured such conversation wasn’t light gym banter.

Later, I looked a little more into Iraq’s football team history. As I thought, until recently, the team had been controlled by Saddam Hussein’s people. His eldest son, Uday, had presided over the Olympic and national teams and athletes. In 2003, Sports Illustrated ran an article quoting sources accusing Uday of severe and sometimes lethal punishments for poor performance, often telling them they’d embarrassed or disgraced the country. Four months after the story ran, Uday was killed in a battle with American forces in northern Iraq. Apparently now, Iraq has created a new Olympic-governing committee, one that is overseen by a democratically elected official.

That night I watched part of the game on TV. Korea definitely had a home-town advantage and in the second half out-played their opponents and took many more shots on goal, easily winning 3-0. but seeing the Iraqi football players in person I was a bit surprised how much they didn’t act like so many of the professional American athletes I’d worked with as a sports reporter in the states. Even without the fear that Uday apparently instilled, I don’t think they ever disgraced their country in their time in Korea…there was no trash-talking when they’d pass their opponents in the halls, no players drunkenly yelling to each other from the bar, or even advances made toward any of the Korean girls and women hanging around outside the hotel who’d come to gawk and fawn over the Korean players and their European coaches.

Later, my thoughts wandered back to the political ties that engulf both our countries. If they truly were playing as free men and now without fear of governmental repercussions, I guessed these were the first people I’d encountered who’d directly benefited from America’s War in Iraq. Did they see it that way, too? Or did they think the US’ invasion was a complete sham and mistake, as many Americans now seem to believe?

By the time I hit the gym yesterday morning, Iraq’s team was likely long gone. I went through a workout similar to the day before, still wondering exactly what those players and coaches think of us…and with two trips to the gym and a mindful of questions, I’m exhausted.

My sister and I visited the welfare agency that worked with the American adoption agency through which we came to the US. Now the Korean agency has an in-house hospital where babies are cared for until they reach a month and then are placed in their adoptive homes or a foster home.

This full-head-of-hair baby was sporting a onesie that I believe all the others were wearing as well…a little “Disney Babies” one. He/she was SO cute wearing the little American cartoon characters!

All throughout the agency was evidence of our two countries’ ties through children…from the volunteers in the nursery helping care for the babies to the photos of adoptive children when in foster care and later when in their adopted American homes. (But just so you know the agency does try to place them with Korean families first, so only about half are sent to the US or Australia)

Per Hannah’s request, here’s another gratuitous photo of me…this time it’s after a manicure/nail art session my sister and I had at a nail salon in Seoul. We were visiting this salon and the owner’s school while her daughter translated.

And if you can’t see my nails in the above photo (where we’re all giving the standard Asian photo gesture), here they are, zoomed in. I couldn’t decide between this and the pink design with rhinestones. I thought this looked more Korean, and I figured “When in Korea…”

In case you don’t read Hangul, I’ll tell you that this is my ticket for Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl. After being in China, where all movies are dubbed, I’d resigned myself to probably not seeing any new American movies while on this trip. This ticket, however, is proof that I’d resigned too early.

Thursday I got to see Johnny Depp and crew swash-buckling there way through another Disney epic; and I must say, I was made quite homesick. Watching it, I remembered the day my Redondo Beach roommate came home and told us they were filming this movie off the shores of RB. For the next week, my (room)mates were often on Black Pearl watch and would be on the lookout to see it dock near Joe’s Crab Shack each night or talk about whether or not Orlando Bloom really had been hanging out on the Hermosa Pier or not. So watching this movie here, definitely made me think about “back home” (if I could call LA that!).

Aye, but at least I saw the movie with an Aussie bloke who brought LA a little closer to home that night when he bought me a churro from the movie concession stand.

Sidenote: Do any of you know why some countries choose to dub American movies and others choose to use subtitles? If you do, I’d love to know…

Socks and sandals are something I haven’t done since I wore Umbro shorts and had the black massaging Adidas sandals that I threw on after middle school basketball practice.

Wearing the two (socks and sandals, that is) together is now quite upper Midwest, and so I couldn’t believe I found myself doing it again. Yet, with the temple’s standard of wearing socks in the actual temple and the fact that I’d only brought flip-flops, I really had no choice but to look like a dad from a Great Lake State.