Every once in a while I catch evidence that some lovely soul, not unlike your own, has stumbled upon this blog.  The very thought, to be perfectly dramatic, has kept me up at night.  I imagine you as a  vagabond, trudging along a lonely path, coughing beneath your coat’s tattered collar.  Suddenly, hope seizes your heart: a house with porch lights invitingly ablaze sings through the darkness!  You run up the walkway and rap at the door — only to have it swing inwards on a creaking hinge.  No one is home after all.

Oh, the disappointment!  The futility!  The emptiness of promise!  How else do you make sense of this blog, with its narratives lying about like mold-ridden furniture?  What must you think of me, its owner, who has abandoned his address without so much as a word goodbye?  Rest assured: I have heard your cries of misunderstanding, and at last I offer the closure we both desperately desire.

I stopped writing this blog back in August 2009, during the whirlwind days preceding my departure from South Korea.  I had maintained documentation of my time abroad for the better part of a year, but just as the end was in sight, my spirit failed.  I agree it was my rightful duty to finish the job.  And so it remains.  But to be perfectly frank, the prospect seems tedious to the point of tears; I’d prefer to leave things as they are and be done with it.  So, with a heart as grateful for your interest as it is heavy with guilt, I inform you, the internet, and God in heaven: this blog is dead.

But feel free to make yourself at home.  Within this blog-husk, you will find the the hijinks of an old-young man and his inaugural year in South Korea.  The  posts are presented, as is the frustrating custom of blogs, in reverse order; to fully appreciate the incremental decay of enthusiasm, one must scroll through the archives, back to the rosy days of September in aught eight.

So long, dear friend, and thanks for stopping by!

It was a miserable month.  I knew it would be, which is why I went on vacation just before it began.  For starters, August meant intensives at the academy.  It’s a period when I pick up extra classes full of very small and loud children.  Also at the academy, this was the last month of a term so I had to prepare final tests in all my regular classes.  And then there was the weather.

I arrived in Korea eleven months before, so I had never experienced August, but everyone claimed it would be humid as hell.  In truth, I don’t know if it was worse than July, but it certainly was a continuation, and that was bad enough.  Teaching classes with pockets of sweat bleeding through my shirts, my face red as a tomato, that sort of thing.

The worst part was that my apartment’s air conditioner didn’t work.  Eventually I was able to coordinate it so the superintendent could be here when my supervisor could be on the phone, translating for me.  Turns out the air conditioner needed oil or something, and it would cost fifty bucks to flip the bill, which the academy wasn’t willing to do.  With only a month to go, I wasn’t about to pay for over a year’s worth of oil.  I’d let my replacement worry about that.

Which leads me to Tommy Stark, my replacement at the academy.  We emailed each other all through August.  He’s from California also, and he seems like a nice enough guy.  I tried to talk him out of the position, telling him there had to be better opportunities out there, but he took this one anyway.  Oh well.  God be with him.

Dealing with my apartment was simple enough: when the sun rose,  it was time to leave.  Before and after work, I often invited myself over to Paco’s much cooler pad where I played Nazi Zombies, a video game that is exactly what it sounds like: completely awesome.

Haeundae Beach was crawling with Koreans the entire month of August.  Besides, Haeundae seemed anemic after Thailand.  The Hot August Nights, however, often found me at the nearby beer gardens, saying goodbye to the foreigners departing Korea — and a lot of them left during August.

Backing up a little, I took a side job during the second week of August, earning extra bread co-teaching some public school summer classes with a Korean woman named Ivy.  This was an interesting experience.  The kids here were roughly the same age as my students in the academy, but their English was woefully worse.  Guess it goes to show that academies, though corrupt, are somewhat effective.

Ivy lived in the states a few years back, and while the kids were busy with dittos, we discussed the pros and cons of our home countries.   I told her the lack of elevator common sense frustrates me; but that I appreciated how Koreans looked out for one another.  Ivy said she enjoyed how relaxed Americans were; but that she didn’t understand the long lines at post offices, DMVs, and even banks.  She contrasted it with the ticket-taking system they use here in Korea, where people can sit in comfortable chairs while they wait for their number to be called.  It makes a lot of sense when you think about it: standing in line causes an atmosphere of stress — was it possible “going postal” is the end result?  And is it possible these workers move so slowly because they’re resentful of this undue stress?  Score one for Korea, I guess.

My main excuse for neglecting this blog is that I really wanted to finish my post on the Thailand Trip, but it seemed like an overwhelming task.  Every time I started, I got mired in the minutia of details.  Plus the frustration of selecting and uploading pictures, one by one, drives a troglodyte like me crazy.  Anyway, I finally finished it, even if it is far too long for anyone else to enjoy.

“Surely the entire point of traveling,” he said, “is the adventure of throwing one’s self into the unknown.”

The infuriating thing about Paco is that speaks like the hero of a romance novel.  Only more British.

I argued for foresight on our trip, for listening to the experiences of others so that we could plan accordingly.  How could anyone disagree with that?  Paco did: “In listening to others you are influenced, and the adventure is no longer personal.”

In the end, we felt our different mindsets would complement each other: with only five days in Thailand, Paco allowed that time-consuming mistakes weren’t a luxury, and I conceded one shouldn’t be so preoccupied with there and when as to overlook here and now.

What follows is a tediously detailed account of our travels, spanning the dates of July 29th to August 2nd, 2009.

DAY ONE: WEDNESDAY

Here’s what I packed: two T-shirts, swimming trunks, underwear, socks, and flip-flops.  Here’s what I wore: a collared short-sleeve shirt, light pants, and my sneakers.  I could have done without the sneakers and socks, I think.  I also packed two books — one too many, as it turned out.  As for money, 13,000 baht (about four hundred USD) in crisp, 1000 baht increments.  And then there were all the smaller things: the iPod, the toiletries, the whatnot.

Wednesday morning we boarded the KTX train, got to Seoul around midday, took the shuttle to the airport, and made it through security with an hour to kill before our flight.  These were Paco’s responsibilities, and he handled them well.  While checking-in for our flight, he pointed out that Korean baggage consists not only of luggage, but also boxes of ramen and kimchi.  Just goes to show that you can’t take the Korea of the Korean.  Then again, who am I to talk?  Americans aren’t known for their willingness to adapt either.

Our plane refueled in Taipei, and that’s where Paco befriended Brad, a fellow English teacher who resides near Seoul.  As a husky Wisconsin native with a large round head, Brad was the prototypical corn-fed, ingenuous type.  He was on vacation alone, and his hotel in Bangkok was only a few blocks from ours.  Paco, because his confidence is bolstered by the uncertainties of others, told him to stick with us.  Then we got back on the plane and flew the remaining few hours to Bangkok.

Personally, I wasn’t sure how I felt about Brad tagging along: on the one hand, splitting a cab three ways was preferred over two; then again, I didn’t want any responsibilities for this hick.  After all, we were diving into Bangkok, the world’s sink of iniquity, known for exploits which emptied wallets and soiled souls, and this kid had a big old bull’s eye stamped right on his goofy face.  Then again, perhaps he’d make a good decoy — unless a wild shot struck me instead . . . . And so wavered my thoughts on Brad.

Yes, I was nervous about Bangkok.  Call it a mild case of agoraphobia.  People who had been to Southeast Asia enjoyed telling me about picked pockets and other such Thai tactics of theft.  The “dangers and scams” section in my guidebook didn’t do much to ease my mind.  This was one instance where Paco’s Ignorant Approach to Traveling might have had merit: he was happily getting soused on the plane while I was racking my brain about the best places to hide my money.

It’s worth repeating that I was traveling from Korea — from Busan, specifically — a place where the degree to which complete strangers look out for one another borders on being rude.  I’ve been on the subway and felt something jostling my backpack, only to discover it’s an old woman making sure my pack’s completely zipped.  Whatever criticisms I shower on Korea, I gotta admit: it’s a safe place.  I leave my wallet and phone on the pavement while I play basketball.  I fall asleep on the train.  I cut through alleys at night without a second thought.  Was it possible Korea had made me soft?  Bangkok isn’t Busan, I warned myself.  Better to be mistrustful than swindled.

After passing through immigration, we headed to the airport’s exit and received our first taste of what would become a reoccurring theme: touts ushering us like dazed sheep to whatever scam they had in mind.  I don’t know about most folks, but when I find myself in a strange place with strangers clamoring for my fare, my first instinct is to get some goddamn breathing space.  “Stay together,” I nearly screamed.  “They’re trying to rip us apart!”  Signs led us toward the government-run taxi kiosk, located on the far side of the terminal.  One thing I learned: you know you’re going the right way when all the “helping” hands try to steer you in other directions.

Upon reaching the kiosk, we gave the agent our destination, and she translated it onto a ticket for our driver, who was next in the queue of drivers off to the side.  Our taxi was a nondescript station wagon, as far as I could see.  There was some confusion when I tried to get in on the driver’s side (like the Brits, they drive on the wrong side of the road).  And when we requested he use the meter — something every guide book recommends — he began to pull the car over, repeating it was 500 baht to our destination.  Looking back, I’m curious what would have happened if we insisted on the meter; but since the guidebook said it would be about 500 baht anyway, we agreed.

We stayed within walking distance to the infamous Khao San Road, but far enough away to sleep peacefully.  It concerned me that the doorknob to our room was a little wobbly until we walked Brad to his lodgings where, in the shadowy hallway leading to his room, lizards scampered across exposed pipes and wiring.  We paid a bit more, but I was proud of the place I booked for Paco and myself. Wobbly doorknob and all, it seemed a hell of a lot safer and cleaner than Brad’s place.  We took a tour of the area, grabbed a beer outside a mostly-empty bar, then jumped into Khao San Road.

Khao San Road was disgusting: there were kids and cockroaches running along the sidewalks; clubs blasting techno at one another; racks of stupid t-shirts saying unfunny things; and devouring it all were gross foreigners — mostly Aussies and Brits — with gross appetites.  The locals were only too happy to fill their troughs.  Trying to pretend like one didn’t notice the filth was an exercise in futility.  Paco, on the other hand, says he enjoyed it.

We left Brad in a club for a while and went to a quieter bar off the strip.  Our table was located under a hut-like sheltering, and it was pleasant except for some glassy-eyed human creature staring at me through the neighboring bushes . . .  Eventually we returned to check up with Brad, and found him with three Thai girls.  So it begins, I thought.  They looked exhausted and yet paired up with us anyway.  We started walking somewhere.  My girl spoke pretty good English, and she claimed to be a theater major in college.  I asked her her favorite play.  Romeo and Juliet, she said.  I didn’t press her, but I didn’t believe her, either.

It was strange: I wasn’t sure who was leading who, but we ended up ascending a staircase toward a bar.  Halfway up the stairs was a desk, behind which two dudes were charging 500 baht for entrance.  The girls didn’t have to pay.  Not being familiar with the currency, I decided to hold back (I now know 500 baht is about 15 bucks).  Besides, I didn’t have 500 baht in my wallet.  I did have it in the sole of my right shoe, but I didn’t want to make that kind of scene just yet.  Paco didn’t flinch; he paid, went on ahead, and I went back to our hotel.

But I couldn’t shake the idea of Paco running around Bangkok, confused and unsure of where we were staying.  So I went back to the club.  “Just give me one minute,” I said to the big guy at the desk, and sighing deeply he let me through for free.  It was a roof bar, pretty swanky, with lots of silhouettes rocking in front of strung-up lights.  Eventually I found Paco and made sure he knew all the vital information.  Realizing, I think, that it was late and we had to rise early tomorrow, he decided to come back with me.  When I asked him how everything went, he said Brad was getting along with his girl, and that all signs pointed to him having an interesting experience.  Apparently Paco’s girl bored or annoyed him in some way, and so he struck up a conversation with a lady-boy instead.  But you’ll have to ask him about that.

It’s been well over a month since these events took place, and I still have no idea what happened to that goofy bastard Brad.  Below is the last known picture of him, standing at my confused side just after exiting Bangkok International.

DAY TWO: THURSDAY

It began as a sultry gray morning.  After a cheap western-style breakfast, we took a walk to the Grand Palace but couldn’t get in because Paco was wearing shorts, clothing which the Muslim-minded Thais see as disrespectful. Fine with me, I said.  From the outside, the palace looked pretty boring.  We continued on our way to the Chao Phraya River, where we boarded a southbound boat just for the hell of it.  The weather was smoggy and humid, the water opaque and brown, and so it doesn’t compliment the city when I say this was my favorite part of Bangkok.  We disembarked after a twenty minute ride and soon found a cab that took us back to the airport.  Next stop: Phuket. 

Bangkok, at least the places we visited, was sort of a disappointment.  But no matter — Phuket was the real destination of this trip.  I had my sights set on Phuket Town specifically.  It’s a good distance from any reputable beaches, but is recommended by guidebooks as an affordable and cozy place from which to venture onward.

When we exited the airport in Phuket, taxi drivers descended on us like locusts from hell.  And if I didn’t know the bus to town cost a fraction of what they were charging, they might have won me over.  Unable to shake one persistent driver, I tried to be both blunt and polite.  “I’m taking the bus,” I said, stopping.  “Please leave me alone.”  In the process of backing off he stepped on my sandal — intentionally or otherwise I couldn’t tell.  Observing all this, Paco told me to calm down.  Future events would prove how ironic this advice was, coming from him.

The bus ride from airport to town, a good hour and change, was pleasantly spent watching groves of rubber trees drift passed.  Eventually we pulled into the large bus station at Phuket town, and again: a swarm of taxi drivers.  This time, however, it was Paco whom they targeted.  The joker of the lot shadowed him, almost mocking his gait.  Guffawing spectators encouraged these antics until Paco spun around and cried, “Oy!  Fuck off, mate!”

In my notebook, where my hand-drawn maps dance in vibrant colors, Phuket town is enthusiastically represented, along with the hostel where I had reserved two beds.  We started walking and soon overcame an English broad who was referencing Southeast Asia on a Shoestring (aka, The Bible), which is where I copied my maps from.  Her name was Sara and she was staying at the same hostel: Phuket Backpacker.

At two hundred baht (less than $6), Phuket Backpacker was definitely worth the price.  It was constantly being cleaned, and though housing a shitload of people, the communal bathrooms were never crowded and our shared room was quiet and comfortable.  It was a perfect destination point because everyone staying there had advice on where to go and what to see, and the staff happily set you up with the best destinations at the best prices.

That evening, after cleaning ourselves up, Paco, Sara and I grabbed a cheap meal at a family-run restaurant and a few beers at a Thai-run Irish-themed bar called O’Malley’s.  Back at the hostel, that stupid Johnny Cash movie Walk the Line was playing in the lounge area.  Sara and Paco stayed up to watch it; I went to bed early.

DAY THREE: FRIDAY

This was the day I’d been waiting for.  I woke before nine and took a walk around Phuket town.

Once Paco woke, we went looking for the bus that would take us to Patong Beach, the most famous beach on the island.  Sara tagged along.  After a half hour of confused meandering through avenues and dead-ends, we discovered the bus to Patong departed from the sidewalk directly in front of our hostel.

It took about an hour, up and down winding green hills littered with billboards.  Black telephone wires cut through what once must have been a green paradise. 

The closer we got to Patong, the more westernized were the establishments, culminating with what looked like a sprawling outdoor mall with a Starbucks as centerpiece.  I’m critical of all this on hindsight, but at the time I couldn’t help smiling; soon I would be swimming the Andaman Sea.

The bus stopped, and there we were: Patong.  The water was a little murkier than I’d imagined, the day a bit more overcast; but still, it was beautiful.   After a quick dip, Paco posed for his audition photo to Baywatch 2: The British Experiment:

Walking down the beach, we were stopped every minute and asked if we wanted to rent a jet-ski or lounge chair or whatever.  Eventually, we dropped our bags and settled down near a beer shack.  Paco grabbed a few cold ones and casually mentioned his interest in purchasing some “Thai stick” to a guy behind the counter.  A mumbled negotiation and partial money-exchange sealed the deal.

While we waited, shirt- and peanut-peddlers hypnotized us with their wares.  Paco bought some overpriced shirts; me, some overpriced nuts.  Then our man came back, and we had in our hands a plastic bag of tawny, questionable product.  It cost Paco and me about thirty bucks each.  All this drug business seemed to make Sara, who taught high school Geography, nervous.

Before we had even lit up, mistakes were made.  First of all, we were wearing these ridiculous tank-tops Paco bought, advertising not only Singha Beer, but also that we were fools intent on parting with our money.  Can you say ‘douche-bag tourists’?

The street merchants needed no more encouragement.  Strolling the sidewalk across from the beach, we were pummeled with, “Hey, Singha Boys!  Here’s a hat to go with the shirt!”

The next mistake was dipping into a roofed-alley lined with small shops.  One shop had a pair of those walking sandals that strap across the top of the feet.  Compounding error with error, I showed interest, tried them on, and asked how much.  The guy answered with a ridiculous amount, which I promptly cut down to less than half.  After haggling a while, I began to realize that something was amiss with this footwear: one was larger than the other, and both pinched where the straps came together.  I started taking them off, saying “Nevermind, nevermind,” at which point he suddenly agreed to my original price of around twenty bucks.  I was the only customer in the alley; all eyes were on me.  Feeling the pressure, I forked over the baht.  Dark clouds of regret hung over the remaining afternoon.

Coincidentally enough, Paco, out on the street, had also purchased sandals — though for less money and, as it turned out, more discomfort.  More about sandals later . . .

From Patong to any other beach costs at least 500 baht by taxi.  The drivers can get away with charging such insane rates because they know you’re stuck here.  It’s possible to rent a scooter for 200 baht a day, but Paco can’t ride a bicycle, let alone a scooter.  Besides, we had our full backpacks weighing us down.  So we decided to split a cab to Kata Beach.  Paco argued with a trio of drivers over the price, and one of them, chuckling, eventually agreed to 500 baht.  Upon entering the idling air-conditioned sedan, Paco expressed how proud he was of his bargaining.

Kata Beach was much more pleasant. 

The water was bluer; the peddlers less frequent.  Most tourists were likely staying at the sprawling Club Med just behind the beach.   We got some lunch, then said goodbye to Sara.  The Bible suggested we spend the night at Kata On the Sea.  We hired a tuk-tuk to check it out. 

As the guide mentions, Kata on the Sea is a twenty minute trek down a steep hill to the beach.  I liked the professional attitude of the woman who ran the place, and the room she showed us was gorgeous, serene, and 800 baht — about twelve bucks apiece.  Having spent less than half that the night before, I was a little hesitant to agree, but I also knew that being so close to the beach would cost more.  Now, somewhere during the day Paco had found a damn flier that mentioned a beach further north, and he wanted to look into it.  “Okay,” I would regret saying.  “I chose the last two nights’ lodgings.  Your turn.”

Now, my family knows the sort of miserable bastard I turn into over prolonged periods of time: during car trips my dad makes a big show of looking at his watch and announcing how long it took me to snap.  Paco was about to about to find out that, for friends, this breaking point was reached at around three days.

It seemed I’d been under the burning sun all afternoon, my bag’s shoulder straps digging into my shoulder.  I just wanted to get stoned and go swimming.  All I could think was, daylight is fading and here we are in another goddamn taxi, paying another extortionary fare.  It’s all Paco’s fault, I told myself.  I even began trying to blame him for the sandals I regretted buying.

So when we arrived at Paco’s Beach (Hat Surin, I believe) and found the area little more than a suburb with lousy accommodations and a fucking elementary school just letting out, I told Paco, point blank, “I’m angry at you.”

Our argument was remarkably civil, and we came to an agreement in less than a minute: it was time to get stoned.  I took a dip in the ocean while Paco set up shop.  The only swimming I’d managed beforehand took place briefly at Patong.  Feeling better already, I walked back up the beach to where Paco waited, and ten minutes later my anger had completely blown away.

I let Paco pay for the taxi back to Kata.  Our driver, complementing our mood perfectly, played a mix of Pink Floyd and Dire Straits.  I prodded him about marijuana, but he clammed up and pretended he didn’t hear, even after I repeated myself.  He probably thought I was a cop.

When we last left the proprietor of Kata On The Sea, she was annoyed that we had refused her lodgings.  Now, after a few hours delay, we returned, the prodigal sons.  There was a quiet smile on her face — a smugness kept in check — as she handed over the room key.

We cleaned up and, seated on the balcony, watched the sun set before heading down the hill to a restaurant recommended by our hostess called, ingeniously enough, Siam Food.  It was a husband-and-wife establishment, and when they saw us glancing at the menu, the woman quickly mentioned that, since it was low-season, all prices were discounted fifteen percent.  Apparently we were the only customers they’d had all day.  After we ate, I paid for the meal out of guilt for the “bad vibes” I had laid on Paco a few hours earlier.  We grabbed some tall beers and strolled toward the beach.

Up to this point in my life, I had never once been cat-called.  That was about to change.  Our route to the beach was a two-lane road, on the right side of which was a long ten-foot wall separating families in Club Med from the debauchery across the way.  On our left, the debauchery: a strip of open-faced bars where women howled and cheered at every male passerby.  At first we actually walked along that left side, but it became too intense when women actually began blocking our paths, or grabbing our hands to pull us in.  Perhaps if I wasn’t giggling uncontrollably they would have left us alone.  Anyway, we crossed the street and took our catcalls from a safe distance, thinking, The night is early, ladies, and we shall see you soon enough.

Once on the beach, we lazed on some lounge chairs until noticing, at the southern end, a fire-show taking place.  We shuffled to the crowded bar-front and watched these crazy Thai dudes throwing their spinning batons of fire up in the sky for an hour or so.  Once it was over, we struck up a conversation with an Australian who was supposed to be vacationing with his girlfriend, but had broken up with her and was now traveling solo.  “Dude,” we said.  “Come with us.”

Walking past the strip of bars, we vainly attempted to be selective until giving up and diving into a bar of squealing Thai girls.  A night of smoking had left me inhibited, and trying to counter these inhibitions with alcohol just made me drunk.  Our Australian friend did well, cozying up to a girl at the bar..  Paco had a girl draped upon his lap.  And me, I was playing pool like a dunce.  The head mistress nodded girl after girl in my direction, but I disappointed each one: I just kept shooting pool, and when they actually humored me for a game, they discovered I was far too plastered to compete.

Paco asked how I’d feel about him taking his girl back to the crib.  I looked her over with critical, half-closed eyes, and I saw something I didn’t trust.  “Look,” I said.  “Lemme grab some stuff first.  My iPod and cards.  And money.”

I volunteered to leave right away, so it wouldn’t be awkward with the three of us hiking up that hill.  I’d just run up the hill, grab my stuff, and leave before he and the girl had even arrived.  Then I’d chill on the beach while he did his thing.  My paranoia seemed to be contagious because he began to reassess his decision.  “No, no,” he said.  “I’ll go tell her ‘nevermind’.”

While he did, the head mistress came up close and looked me in the eyes.  She said something in broken English, but I understood what she was accusing me of: cuntblocking.  I shrugged and confessed, “Yep, I did.”  Now, I’ve noticed that Asian chicks like to hit their male friends.  It’s meant to be playful; and what’s funny is the more they like the guy, the harder they hit.  This woman, she didn’t like me: her fist punched my chest without any weight.  But her face, her face was heavy with reproach.

On our way back, we stopped in another bar.  This one had an outdoor bar and swimming pool.  Completely hammered at this point, I began playing connect-four with some chick at the bar.  She beat me game after game.  We made a bet on the final game.  I sincerely cannot remember what she wage, but it didn’t matter since I lost.  I honored my bet and jumped in the blue, refreshing pool.

I sort of remember eating naan bread in an Indian cafe amongst a group of serious-looking Muslim men before returning to the room later that night, but not really.

DAY FOUR: SATURDAY

The previous day was funny but a failure nevertheless: we spent far too much time and money on half-assed decisions.  I vowed to scrape off past mistakes and make only precise, deliberate movements from here on out.  The sandals purchased less than twenty hours earlier would be the first items sacrificed to this new ideal.  They represented a moment of weakness, a regrettable mistake.  Also, my old pair were twice as comfortable and, in my backpack, weighed half as much.  I gave the new sandals to Paco (the ones he had bought were even worse than mine) and felt the immediate relief of a burden shed.

My second decision was to visit the purported paradise of Ko Phi Phi.  From talking to other backpackers in Phuket Town, I knew that the hostel there organized transportation to the island.  So our first mission was to get back to Phuket Town.

But first, we revisited Siam Food for breakfast.

Here’s a picture of the inside.

And one of where I sat.

My simple breakfast, deep-fried bananas: 

Afterward, we caught a songthaew back to Phuket Town.  There was a Chinese family on board, and you could tell the father was eager to exercise his English chops.  At times such as these, it’s extremely helpful to have the Pacster around.  He can talk out of his ass about anything ad nausea.  During breaks between songs on my iPod, I caught pieces of their conversation, including Paco testifying to how strong the ocean currents were. “And I consider myself a strong swimmer,” he was saying. 

Back at the backpacker hostel, we discovered the final trip to the Island left in less than five minutes.  The driver to the port showed up while the transaction took place (it cost about twenty bucks round trip!) and soon we were on a ferry, skipping along the waves.  Paco and I and a whole bunch of beautiful twenty-something Europeans chilled on deck, where the darkly tan  Thai fellows dispensed cans of Singha.

Pulling into Ko Phi Phi felt surreal.  Our ferry coasted around a bend of jutting cliffs, revealing the cove and main dock of the island.  I thought that combination of turquoise water and white sand existed only in the movies. 

Ko Phi Phi is a pretty small island and, once you delve into the interior, it has the feeling of a roofed and cluttered village.  After disembarking, we walked around for a while, disoriented.  The woman back at Phuket Backpackers had recommended a place called “The Rock” for accommodations.  We were misled several times before we found an internet café and Paco was able to work his computer wizardry.

On our way to The Rock, we allowed ourselves to be taken in by a Thai proprietor who spoke fluent English and, when he found out where we taught, pretty good Korean as well.  He kept calling me “Teacher” — a title which I must admit strokes my ego, even though it’s a stretch in my case.  The room we looked at had a fantastic view of the island and cost less than eight bucks apiece. 

While paying Sara, from Phuket, tapped us on the shoulder.  Apparently she heard Paco’s singular voice amongst the island’s bustle, “And there you are!”  So we unloaded our belongings in the room, took a few pictures of the view, and visited the beach on the other side of the island.  It reminded me of the coves I’d read about in pirate tales.  I wanted to rent a kayak and head out during sunset, but we couldn’t get our shit together in time.  We hung out at a bar, got some dinner, and then Paco and I decided it was high time for a Thai massage and split from Sara for a while.

Yes, getting a Thai massage was high on my list of “Must do’s,” and we were finally doing it.  We found a place outside the island’s hub that was inside our price range.  The woman showed us to a long room.  Beds lined the left wall, each one flush against the another.  I would have preferred a bed far as away from Paco as possible, but it looked like we would be neighbors.  There were drapes tied to the bed posts.  I wondered if they would be drawn.

Realizing that, with any luck, our entire bodies would be rubbed down, we emptied our pockets.  I put my money in a cigarette pack; Paco hid his under his pillow.  Then our masseuses entered.  Paco’s was the woman who showed us the room.  Mine was girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old.  She didn’t speak English, so Paco’s masseuse had to translate.  “Soft, medium, or hard,” we were asked.  To be safe, I went with “medium.”  Because he has something to prove, Paco went with “hard.”

It.  Was.  Awesome.  The girl used every bit of her small body, entwining it in mine, pulling and pounding me like dough.  Her knees kneaded my muscles; her elbows dug in my shoulders.  She giggled and flicked at my gross feet.  She recoiled upon touching my hair (after a few days sans shampoo it resembled steel wool).  When she came across the scars on my left arm, she cooed questioningly, “Soft?”  I was ready to marry her halfway through.

Paco, on the other hand, had a different relationship with his masseuse.  When he wasn’t screaming with pain, he was asking all the questions that preclude any risqué behavior:“How old are you?” he asked.  “Are you married?  What’s your name?”  And I’ll never forget, on the topic of the Thai language, him saying in a ridiculously affected voice, “I think it is a beautiful language, but unfortunately I cannot speak this language.”  If a young girl’s legs weren’t wrapped around my own, I would’ve kicked the shit out of him.  Rule number one: say as little as possible to the masseuse.  Conversation ruins everything!

There was a funny moment when we flipped over onto our stomachs, and all the money and change under Paco’s pillow went flying, revealing his mistrust for the ladies and their vocation.  Upon leaving, I gave the girl a healthy tip.

Paco and I proceeded to meet up with Sara.  This is where things become a little blurry.  One of the bars housed an actual ring in which Mai Thai boxing took place.  After a pair of Thais fought, foreigners got in the ring and went at each other.  These weren’t just drunken tourists; they knew what they were doing.  When I saw this huge German dude enter the ring opposite a much smaller opponent, there was no question who I was betting on.  Turns out the smaller guy won, though.

Meanwhile, Paco was running all over the place.  He tried bringing a beer into the boxing bar and got in an argument with the young man guarding the entrance.  He was turned away, and I lost him for a while after that.  By the time I found him he was tanked.

At another bar, this one on the beachfront, I was taking a piss when the huge German from the boxing ring sidled up next to me, his face cut and bruised.  He noticed me staring and mentioned the fight.  “I saw that!” I exclaimed. “It was awesome!”  “I should have won,” he said with a distinct accent.  “He punched me in the balls!”  He was intent on me believing him.  I nodded, zipped up, and backed away slowly.

At some point it seemed like everyone on the island had gone to bed.  Paco capped the night off with a pizza, and then we too turned in for the night.

DAY FIVE: SUNDAY

Had our vacation already come to its hung-over end?  The flight back to Korea left Phuket at six in the evening, which meant we had to leave Ko Phi Phi on the two o’clock ferry.  There was still enough time to check one item off the list.

I jumped out of bed and, camera in tow, investigated snorkeling tours.  That’s how I got this shot: 

There was a half-day expedition that barely fit our tight schedule, but by the by the time I returned to wake Paco, it had already left.  Plan B began forming while we packed our things, smoked, and checked out. 

After breakfast, we walked back toward the port side of the island.  A tourist’s thoughts must be transparent to locals, because as I wondered about renting a water taxi and snorkel equipment, a guide approached and offered both.  Adjusting my bargaining hat, I guessed a fair price would land around a thousand baht for both Paco and me.  He’ll probably start off at fifteen hunsky, I told myself, then I‘ll counter with seven, and so on until we eventually agree on a solid g.  So I was shocked when he said “one thousand” right away.  I just nodded my head, then kicked myself immediately afterward, thinking, I probably could’ve gotten it for five hundred.

But we were going to do some snorkeling, and that’s what mattered.  We stocked up on water, and then our guide led us to the wooden water taxis lined along the beach.  He left us briefly for some errand or another, and shrugging our shoulders, we started the awkward task of boarding the boat.  Once on, the loose planks that served as a small deck popped up like seesaws unless I remembered to keep myself dead-center at all times.  I piled on the sunscreen — neglecting my back, as future Trav would lament.  Our guide returned, leaped into the boat like a cat, and started the engine.

The loud motor and the cool ocean spray as we cut through crystal blue water, this alone was worth the money.  We passed a few beaches, small pockets of paradise, before coming to rest at reef-happy cove.  Our guide, who had shown absolutely no interest in us since offering his services, nodded, indicating this was where we jump in.

For the first time I noticed there were no fins on the boat.  “Umm,” I said, getting our guide’s attention.  “No fins?”  He shook his head, and realizing that it was useless to argue, I focused on my snorkel mask instead.  I took my time, adjusting the straps just right and practicing a few deep breaths.  Meanwhile, Paco threw his mask on, said “Cheer-io,” and jumped right in.

About one and a half seconds went by before he started splashing and flailing his limbs, obviously in a state of panic.  “Help!” he spluttered.  I exchanged a puzzled look with the guide before he grabbed a small metal ladder and hooked it over the boat’s side.  Paco pulled himself aboard so quickly the boat almost capsized.  He tore off his mask, panting, “I don’t like that!  Ooohhhh, I don’t like that at all.”  The guide offered him a life vest, but Paco refused to re-enter the water.  Then the guide looked at me, obviously wondering what the hell sort of tourists he’d gotten himself mixed up with.  Feeling as though I needed to prove something, I waved off the life jacket, descended the ladder, and pushed off.

It felt marvelous.  As I floated on my back, I couldn’t help looking at Paco and asking, “Really?  You don’t want to give it another shot?”  He shook his head, so I turned to view the world I had just entered. 

I won’t waste a lot of words trying to describe how magical it all was.  The smaller fish, of which there were millions, traveled as though through a complex network of invisible pipes.  Others kept to themselves, pursuing their own business.  And one miserable bastard became protective when I floated too close.  I kicked at him as I retreated.  All these fish were insanely decorated; I was reminded of the bright colors and strange patterns from the ’80s, and I wondered whether there was some connection.

To be honest, though, it was a little scary.  For starters, this whole activity reeked of illegitimacy.  I saw an official tour group a hundred feet away, all of them wearing life-vests and flippers, the limits of their terrain marked with orange buoys.  And here I was, a cheap snorkel mask and swim trunks, wandering through unmarked waters.  Was it unreasonable to assume that all these friendly fish would attract hungry sharks?  I felt as though I had to remain vigilant of that foggy wall where my underwater vision ended and the purple unknown began.

Also, I wasn’t sure what kind of danger the reef itself posed.  Most of it was so shallow I had to remain horizontal or else brush my feet against crazy-looking, potentially dangerous underwater plants.  I didn’t even know if the porous rocks were safe to stand on.  So I had to be careful about where I stopped to tread water when I occasionally needed to adjust my snorkel mask.

I re-boarded the boat with enough time to visit one more cove, and then we had to head back to port.  I felt completely satisfied: Thailand’s Andaman Coast is considered one of the best underwater destinations to explore, and I wouldn’t have felt this trip was complete if I hadn’t been snorkeling.  Next time, it’s scuba diving.

We wasted some time lounging near the port before our ferry was set to leave.  Having been in the sun all day, I was desperate to find a seat with some shade.  This was a huge boat, much bigger than the one on which we arrived, with three tiers of sitting areas.  Every seat was taken.  Paco and I soon lost each other, and when I finally found a shady spot, I didn’t want to risk losing it to find him.  I’ll see him back in Phuket, I thought.

It was a strange spot I had found, located outside the ferry’s main cabin on the narrow walkway that leads to the nose of the boat (nautical terms are my greatest weakness).  I had to stand up every time someone walked by, but it blocked the sun and I liked being in the open air.  Some Australians dudes soon joined me, and it seemed like the trip back would be as pleasant as the trip there.  But I was wrong.

About ten minutes after departing, things began to get rocky.  The boat began heaving, up and down, leaving my stomach in its wake.  The waves kept getting bigger, and when the bow plunged forward we took on buckets of water.  I had to stand up to stay dry, but even so, my backpack was getting soaked.  I had to store it someplace underneath the deck.  That meant moving, and though the Thais strolled around like the boat was one big disco party, for me every step was a potentially broken neck.

Inside the sitting rooms, the ferry had become the SS Vomit.  It was terrible; everyone’s faces looked pale and sickly, the smells and sounds of people retching was everywhere.  I recognized one of the group organizers from Phuket, and when he took my bag for safe storage, he asked where Paco was.  I told him I didn’t know.  He just whistled a long low whistle before saying, “Wow.”

I had to get back into the open air or begin vomiting myself.  With all the seats taken, I sat on the wet deck and held my head, thinking, This too will pass.  It was a long hard trip.  I close my eyes because it made me feel nauseous, and everywhere I looked someone was throwing up.

When we finally pulled into Phuket, I went looking for Paco.  I expected to find him doubled over in a pool of his own fluids, but there he was, standing on the very walkway I had abandoned earlier, smiling.  There were no traces of having endured any of the hardships that had nearly broken me.

We had an hour to kill in Phuket town before the last bus left for the airport.  We went to a coffee house that housed the local art scene and ate some cheap food at a very small and cheap street stall.  I love the colorful, slipshod vibe to Phuket Town. 

It’s described as having Sino-Portuguese influences, and though I have no idea what that means, I agree with the way it sounds.  We had a huge joint left, but the ferry ride had left me feeling too sick to even think about it, so we threw it away before heading to the airport.  I daresay a piece of Paco’s heart was thrown away with it.

I was half-asleep for the trip home.  And when I finally awoke, we were back in slate-gray Korea, where the functional architecture looms tall, devoid of personality.  Two months, I thought.  Two month until I’m back in Southeast Asia again. 

At the end of our contracts, we English teachers receive a bonus if we find someone to replace us.  Something around $400.  Paco told me about this guy Brian who wasn’t happy at his public school placement.  Pretty soon I had Brian’s resume in my supervisor’s hands with the understanding that Paco and would split the finder’s fee.

Now, Brian is black, and the unspoken question was, “Will my academy hire a black guy?”  Academies, since they’re privately owned, have the luxury of discrimination, and it is no secret they milk that luxury until it’s dry.  The owners are business men with traditional values: appearance is paramount.  And I’m not sure if I’ve made this clear, but Koreans as a rule are openly insensitive toward minority races.  It’s one of the many examples foreigners cite when they compare Korea to America in the 1950′s.  Every time one of my students sees a black person in their workbooks, the immediate response is, “Ah, Obama!” or, “Aplica pace!” (Africa face.)

Anyway, Brian’s resume was solid, and he was given an interview.  All this took place early July.  Flash forward to this Monday’s meeting between my supervisor, Peter, and us foreign teachers.  Peter told me that our academy wouldn’t be hiring Brian.  “Really?” I said.  Realizing it would be me passing along the bad news, I asked, “Why?”

My supervisor, Peter, who grew up in New York and is therefore not limited to the Korean mindset, appeared sympathetic.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I liked him.”
It was obvious he had more to say on the matter, so I pressed: “Then what’s the problem?”

And at this point my coworker, who knew absolutely nothing about any of this, chimed in, admonishing me: “He’s not going to tell you; it’s none of your business.”

I nearly laid into her, but since she was covering my shifts while I was on vacation, I just shot her a venomous glance and let it go.

I can’t be sure my boss is a racist, but all signs point in that direction.  I didn’t know what to tell Brian, or if I should tell him anything at all.  So I went to Thailand instead.

And Phuket, one with all the major roads, and another that simply highlights the main attractions:

And finally, Phuket Town:

Yep; I’m a dork.

South African Sunel had a farewell dinner Wednesday and a farewell party Friday.  Sunel is a fascinating girl — she’s a conspiracy theorist who enjoys trance parties.  Not my cup of tea, but her sense of humor allows ribbing.  We visited Seoul several times together, and she was around nearly every time I stepped in a feng shui pond.  On my birthday she jumped on my back and tackled me in front of a crowd of laughing Koreans.  She’s sort of a nutcase.  I’ll miss her.

There was the usual basketball on Saturday and Sunday.  I tried to steal the ball from some kid.  He put on some moves and dribbled the ball behind my back, causing me to spin around like a fool, then blew passed me for a lay-up . . . that much I remember.

Also on Sunday I went to the newly opened Costco in nearby Centum City with Paco and Danny.  Yeah, it felt a little like Costco back home, only I couldn’t get to any of the samples.  Apparently only the worst, most uncivilized Koreans patronize Costco in Korea.  With no perceivable consideration for other shoppers, the whole place was one big grocery-cart traffic jam.

We got some hot dogs and headed for the crowded tables, but every time we neared an open seat, some fat Korean broad put her stuff in its place.  (Koreans, as a rule, are in pretty good shape; all the fat ones seem to dwell in Costco’s food court.  They pile their paper plates, not with purchased food, but with condiments like relish and mustard, creating a greenish yellow pyramid of muck.)  One woman surrounded her table with carts, and finally I just pushed them out of the way and sat down, despite her excited protests.  I tried to explain I’d move if whoever she was saving her seats for showed up.  No one ever did.  She fumbled with her cell phone while I savored the closest thing to an American dog that I’ve had in a year.  It’s probably not a good sign that it gave me so much pleasure to cause her so much discomfort.

We took home some huge pizzas and ate until we felt sick.

And I did; the few noteworthy aspects of this week took place in the old hagwon.  Ever since I decided to extend my contract, the boss has been handing down rules that seem directed at me personally.  I’m beginning to think he’s trying to dissuade me from remaining another month.  The following are a few things Peter mentioned during a meeting with us foreign teachers, though his eye-contact was most fixedly strapped on yours truly:

•    “No sitting down while teaching.”  Which is bullshit.  The only time I sit down is when I have a student stand, for acting out a dialogue exercise, or for giving a speech, or whatever.  It’s all very educational.  I’m not that lazy, for Christ’s sake.

•    “You must remain until 9:30 even on days when you finish teaching early.  It says so in your contract.”  Apparently I was making too ostentatious an early exit.  But the only logical reason for staying after I’m finished, as far as I can see, is to set a precedent before my replacement arrives.  Or maybe they feel it’s good to have me around in case mothers of potential students show up and need to be assured a white face will be giving lessons.

•    “No leaving the hagwon for long periods during your shift.”  Usually I show up at least a half hour early to prepare my lessons so I have enough time for lunch before my classes begin.  Occasionally I correct student work while waiting for my food.  It’s a nice relaxed little operation I got going, but they want to fuck it all up.  Why?

And there is no answer.  I wonder how Ryan would handle this situation.  He’d probably give everyone the finger and leave early anyway.  Then again, Ryan got fired . . .   In a month and change I’ll receive my completion bonus (September marks a year), so the plan is to play it their way for the time being: just nod and humor them, then see if I can’t revert to my old ways after receiving my bonus.

On Friday I went with Peter down to the immigration office to make the extension legal on my visa.  It was a wasted morning because we didn’t have the right papers or whatever.  Having expected something like that to happen, I wasn’t even angry.  Here’s a picture of the “beautiful, wonderful” building.

Jared, the only foreigner I consistently see on the courts, played his last game in Korea on Saturday.  He had a sweet outside shot, we played well together, and he will be missed.

Also, John, the blond Iowan who inspired me to look into Korea in the first place, said his goodbyes Saturday night at Gwangali Beach.  Before meeting up with him, I took a few pictures of Jeff and myself.

I found John soon after.  I thanked him for everything and wished him well.  (Of course, I ended up awkwardly running into him a dozen times afterwards.)  Here he is with one of his friends:

After Gwangali, I went to Starface Neo expecting an eighties dance party but found horrible techno instead.  Everyone was smashed and the floor was extremely slippery.  As I was putting the moves on some chick, Paco stumbled up and knocked half my beer into her purse.  A little later he went to hug another chick and dropped her with an accidental clothesline.  As she was falling, I grabbed her drink but not her hand.  She seemed pretty pissed at both of us.

After basketball on Sunday I went to Trivia Night at Starface and hung around late afterward, talking with well-traveled Kester about Phuket and Ko Phi Phi.  He kept telling me I’d need at least a thousand dollars for the trip, while I was confident I could do it on less than three hundred.  “No way, bro,” he said.  “Can’t be done.”  Meanwhile, he’d been ordering bottle after bottle of wine without ever asking the price.  Paco was there, too.  If it’s one thing I’ve learned about these Great Britain dudes, it’s that they are huge shit-talkers, especially when it comes to subjects they nothing about.  History, Evolution, Politics, they exhaust every subject as if their accents are proof of authority.  Kester, being Scottish, does have a kick ass accent, though.  I’ll give him that.

The next day can be summed up with one word: monsoon.  Streets and sidewalks were flooded; soaked clothes, unavoidable.   I woke early, hung over, and waded to the nearest Kim Bop Chun Gook for some Cham Chi Jjiggea (tuna fish stew — better and spicier than it sounds).  Back at the apartment I dried off and passed out until work, after which I hit up the saunas.

Paco and I decided not to further procrastinate over an end of July vacation, and on Wednesday we we walked into Kangsan Travel Agency, asking for deals, and there it was: Phuket on Thailand’s east coast.  We arrive in Bangkok late-night Wednesday the 29th and connect to Phuket the next day.  We return to Busan Monday, August 3rd.  It will be a nice trial-run for the Thailand trip I plan on taking with my sister come October.

That night, hanging with Britts in an artsy-hip Korean bar in Kyungsung, I sounded out the word “nacho” on a menu, and ordered a batch.  Stale, round corn chips, and two small cups, one of melted cheese and the other containing store-bought salsa.  You Californians have no idea how good you got it.  Somebody eat a taco for me.  Now.

The sun came out Friday, and with it came dragonflies, trillions of them.  Large and brown, they were everywhere that morning, cutting into my path, pausing momentarily, darting off again.  At first I was a little frightened.  I tried to punch them, but they were too fast and didn’t seem set on making contact anyway.  It was sort of magical.

The weekend marked the annual event known as Mudfest, an alcohol-fueled debauchery taking place on Korea’s west coast.  Based on name alone, I wasn’t interested.  As Saturday approached, just about every foreigner I knew had their ticket: Busan, it seemed, would be a ghost town.  Still, I wasn’t intrigued.  In fact, I told my coworker I’d cover her Saturday shift so that she could go.  That way I had an excuse when Paco began twisting my arm.  But as I soon discovered, Paco’s will is not to be underestimated: he somehow found a substitute, and suddenly I was going to Mudfest.

Most foreigners bought seats on packed buses.  They looked forward to drinking and screaming and even crowd-surfing for the six-plus hour trip.  Thank God the troop I went with had different arrangements: most of the distance would be covered on the comfortable KTX train, and the remaining transportation would be negotiated by Korean friends who were coming along.

I woke early Saturday morning, and as I was packing Ryan texted me the following message: “do u have extra swim trunks? If so could u bring a pair?”  Up until that point I had no idea Ryan was coming.  Now that I knew he was, I gotta confess: things seemed a bit brighter.

Saturday’s highlights included — Taking the packed slow-train connecting the KTX with our bus to Boryeong, where the festival took place; Arriving and meeting friends who had made separate trips; Being unable to avoid the mud that rubbed from person to person as we squeezed through the overwhelming crowd; Cleaning off in the appropriately named Yellow Sea (most foreigners were too lazy to search for bathrooms); Getting drunk all the while; Eating dinner at an overpriced bulgogi restaurant; Finally seeing some kick-ass fireworks in Korea while the rain battered my cheap rainbow-colored umbrella; Eventually finding dry shelter in a bar; Returning outside to watch the climax of a hip-hop concert taking place on the main stage.

Here’s a few pictures.  First, arriving in Boryeong —

Then Ryan, Danny, Paco, and I, pre-mud.  Check out Danny’s goggles.  Ryan’s wearing the yellow trunks I gave him. 

Here’s the crew I traveled with:

This is the last picture I took before storing my camera in a safe, clean locker.  Can you make out Ryan and Paco? 

Other foreigners, however, held onto their cameras.  Here are two pics I found on Facebook.

Poor Danny and his Korean girlfriend . . . they took pains to organize the trip but didn’t get too wild because just as the fireworks were going off one of their friends was hit by a goddamn car and taken to the nearby hospital.

We slept in a Minbak (I think it’s called), which is basically an apartment empty of furniture except for blankets and pillows.  Paco, who slept on the floor next to me, pissed me off on two counts: first of all, he snores (a depressing discovery seeing as how I’ll be traveling with him in a few weeks); and secondly, he took my blanket and in the name of Chivalry placed it upstairs for some chick to use — only she slept somewhere else.

Sunday was miserably wet, incredibly windy.  The umbrella I purchased (12,000 won) the previous evening broke before I returned from breakfast.  Most of the buses took off early, the unanimous decision amongst ticket-holders being, “Get the fuck out of Dodge.”  But because we had reserved seats on a five o’clock train, our cheap asses had to wait.  (Two girls in our troop, however, split early in the morning.  They were complainers, so good riddance.)

On the KTX home, Paco, Danny, his girlfriend, and I got seats facing each other with a table between us.  We played a soju-drinking game.  I was happy that Danny and his girl finally got a chance to cut loose.  Paco has since stated that this was his favorite part of the trip.  At one point he had an uncontrollable laughing fit, and I was certain the shoosh-ing ushers would kick us off the train.  We ran out of booze with an hour to go, and the fellas were thinking about running for more during one of the ninety-second stops; thankfully, we weren’t that drunk, and eventually a lady pushing a convenience cart sold us enough beer to tide us over.

I found a lump on my balls.  Not knowing where to go or what to do, I spoke with Kester, whom I mention at the end of the last post.  I figured that with all his recent hospital experience here in Busan, Kester would be able to give me some advice.  He did that, and more, going off on all sorts of penis-related tangents.  Most importantly, he gave me the location of a credible urologist.

Tuesday I took the subway down to Busan Station.  Kester instructed me to look for the Dunkin Donuts, above which I would find the doctor’s office.  But all I saw above Dunkin Donuts was a neon sign that read Sex Shop.  What the fuck, I thought.  Was Kester putting me on?  I walked up three flights to a brownish, abandoned-looking hallway.  The door was nondescript except for the cheap “Sex Shop” sign on front.   Like a creep, I hovered just beyond it.  Should I just walk in and toss my balls on the counter?  I heard some guy coming up the stairs and decided to get the hell out of there.

Back on the street, I saw that above a Paris Baguette (which neighbored the Dunkin Donuts) was a large billboard with a cartoon doctor holding a clipboard.  Ahh, I thought, and climbed the stairs.  The male receptionist spoke to me in Russian (at least, I think it was Russian: Texas Street, located just around the corner, is home to a large population of Russians).  I responded with one word, “testicles,” and pointed south.

After a short wait, I was brought into the office where the doctor asked me a few questions in broken English, then asked me to take off my pants.  An awkward series of movements followed: I kept trying to take off my shirt, despite the doctor saying “No — the pants, the pants!”  It just didn’t feel right to wear a shirt while naked from the waist down.  Anyway, once the groping was over, the doctor said there was nothing to worry about, and that it should go away.  He didn’t charge me a single won.

I ate an overpriced, low-quality breakfast on Texas Street while the Filipina hostess asked me about the hours and pay for teaching at a hagwon.  I had a travel book on South East Asia with me, and she showed me where she had grown up, as well as all the places in the Philippines she had never been.  She couldn’t have been much older than me, and after a few questions of my own, I learned that she married a Korean in her early youth, and since then has lived only here, in Busan.  I felt sorry for her.

Wednesday July 1st was Canada Day.  Canadians make up a large percentage of the foreigner population, so there were a lot of them running aboot, sporting bright red outfits and chugging draft beers.  Though neither of us is Canadian, Paco and I met up and joined in the festivities.

For the past few weeks, while he waits for an apartment to open up (in my building, of all places), Paco has lived in a hostel, and in doing so he has found his calling.  Paco loves to play host, to share his knowledge of Busan and everything else, and to charm travelers with his British ways — especially if the travelers are female.  On Canada Day, he showed up with two young Floridians who lived in Seoul: one was a blond girl in whom I immediately detected snobbery, and the other a nice enough fellow who, it seemed tragically obvious, was not her boyfriend.

We took a taxi out to Gwangali and partied with friends on the beach for a few hours.  At one point, the Florida girl walked up and said she was leaving because “those people” (she pointed to a group of acquaintances) “are talking about geography.”  She thought she was funny.  Then she told me about an episode of MTV’s The Real World, and when my only response was a joke about my age, she walked over to Paco and — not realizing I was within earshot — said she was leaving because “those people are talking about geography and that guy is old.”  This last remark, I realized, was about me.  After a moment’s hesitation, I approached her and said, matter-of-factly, “You’re kind of a bitch.  Just so you know.”

The-poor-guy-who-will-never-be-her-boyfriend consoled her.  Paco sent them back to the hostel in a taxi, then marched back to me, incensed.  We had a minor screaming match (Me: “She called me old!” Paco: “But you ARE old!”), and eventually I apologized for “throwing salt in his game.”

(On hindsight, I do regret using the word “bitch.”  It’s too easy and unfair an epithet when it comes to women; I should have broken her down, pointed out her basic indecency and shitty sense of humor, insulted her intelligence a little bit . . . maybe next time.)

At the academy on Thursday I taught a group of English beginners, helping them with worksheets and whatnot.  I showed one girl where she had made a mistake and, when she thought I wasn’t looking, she gave me the finger.  “Out” was all I said.  She waited in the hall until class was over, then I brought her into the main office and waited for my supervisor so he could speak with her in Korean.  He showed up, and before I finished two sentences, he interrupted me.  “I know,” he said.  Another student had apparently told him what happened.

It bothered me that no one asked me anything, or told me what consequences the girl would receive, if any.  I guess I’ll find out this upcoming Thursday when I teach the class again.

Then, on Friday I was informed that I would have to pay a thirty dollar fee for extending my contract a month.  After what I considered a serious lack of consideration on Thursday, I was looking for any excuse not to extend.  After all, if the hagwon really wants me to stick around, why can’t they pay the fee?  Fuck it then, I thought.  No extension through September.  Paradise instead.  But that night I went out with Paco and Britts and company, and they helped me remember that life here definitely has its upsides.

Saturday was The Fourth of July.  I played ball with Jeff and Ash, a broad-backed black dude from Brooklyn.  The Korean kids we played against didn’t stand a chance.  I just dropped the ball into Ash and let him go to work.  That afternoon we went out to Songjeung Beach, where I remained until five the next morning.  Early in the night a large group of obnoxious Americans belted out the National Anthem in a way that frightened the Korean locals.  A policeman had to calm everyone down.  For my part, I spent the entire night trying to get plastered, but never really succeeded.  I went in the ocean at about four am because a couple chuckle-head foreigners kept shouting about bioluminescence.  I didn’t see anything.

I slept into the afternoon on Sunday then played some deplorable basketball with a few other exhausted foreigners.  We only played in two games because the goddamn Koreans think pick-up ball should resemble hour-long professional games.  Afterward I crawled home to die.  La-la-la-laaaa.