Fast on the heels of my 40th birthday was the company sponsored health check-up. These days Americans are enthusiastic about socialized medicine, but I wonder how they would feel if their regular doctor visits turned into something more similar to the physical for joining the cross-country team in junior high.
Around the auditorium, temporary cubicles had been sent up. We all shuffled in and before we had to all get naked together to turn our heads and cough, we had to get our height and weight checked. Some effort was made to maintain privacy despite the tight quarters. The nurse wrote my height and weight on a piece of paper. She showed it to me and asked, "Is that OK?" I looked at 183 cm and 75 kg and asked, "If I say no, can you change it?" The great thing is that at those figures, I am considered borderline obese in Japan. The last time I went to K-mart to buy underwear in the States, the only size that fit was the Small.
My favorite part of the health check is always the eye check. In Japan they have an eye chart that uses circles that get gradually smaller going to the bottom of the chart. One area of the circle is open and the patient is supposed to say which side is open -- top, bottom, right or left. The first time I saw it, the right side was open, so when asked if I could see it, I quickly answered that it was the letter 'C'. I was lucky I ever got my driver's license. After I took the test, one of the computer science teachers sat down. I think he was from Bangladesh and I am guessing it was his first time to see this kind of test. The nurse asked him in Japanese if he could read number 12, about half way down the chart. The Bangladeshi teacher answered in English, "twelve". This continued two or three times until the nurse switched to English and explained how the test was supposed to work.
We had our blood pressure taken in groups of five. Mine was 110 / 60. I don't really know what that means, but the nurse told me that was perfect. The guy sitting next to me was 190 / 110 (so much for privacy) and the nurse was backing away like he might blow at any second and splatter the walls like an abattoir.
When we did finally get naked, it was like junior high. Varying degrees of body hair -- a lot of hairy backs --and man boobs on display. I was shocked when the nerdy electrical engineer that I serve with on a couple of committees took off his shirt. He was ripped like a pro wrestler. No body hair either. He probably waxes. I didn't want to stare, guys are weird about that, but the guy had a great body.
Finally we got our 90 seconds apiece with the doctor. Doctors are always a tricky handle and the cram school survivor who has abjured lucrative private practice to give company health checks probably has a few skeletons (not just for research purposes) in the closet. The doctor in the curtain covered cubicle sat with his bloodshot eyes and five o'clock shadow, sipping something that smelled suspiciously like isopropyl. His eyes lit up when I came in. A foreigner, a diversion. I wanted to avoid the English lesson. One of the first times I had a health check in Japan, the doctor listened to my lungs with the stethoscope and pronounced, "Your lungs are almost perfect." I thought I had a tumor or tuberculosis. Today's doctor, rallied himself for a stab at English but the best he could manage was, "SAIKIN, HAI TOKA, ICHOU TOKA, NO MONDAI DE HOSPITAL E ITTA KOTO ARIMASUKA?" I wondered where that 'hospital' had come from. I told him no and he checked my lungs. He asked if I had had any health problems recently. I told him that I had hurt my back the other day and he answered, "SORE HA II DESUNE. Well that's OK then. Thank you. Next." I imagine that if I had told him that it hurt when I pee and that I had a nasty yellow mucus dripping from my eyes, his answer would have been the same.
I know there are a lot of Americans who would welcome this level of heath care. But I with Google you can pretty much self-diagnose. If we could only self medicate -- you know cut out the doctor's prescriptions and the pharmacists and just buy the level of medication we want, it might be better off than trying to fix the whole health care thing.
About Me
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Starfish & Coffee
I have been awash in insincerity and a lack of genuineness. I recently went into my first Starbucks whose proliferation in Japan while not yet reaching the state of development in the States where people with short-term memory loss caused by recent head trauma unable to remember that they just exited a Starbucks will stroll to a Starbucks directly across the street from the one they just exited to fill their days constantly drinking Latte Grandes. Still Starbucks are popping up around Nagoya like slugs in the garden after the rain.
Now I love coffee. When I wake up the first thing I do is pour myself a cup of the lukewarm leavings from the carafe of the previous day’s coffee. I like the slightly warm or even stone cold coffee first thing in the morning. No sitting around blowing steam over the cup for me. I need that caffeine to hit my neuron gaps as soon as possible. I can slam down two or three of these cool cups so that I can start my day. After Shizuko gets up, she will usually make a pot of fresh coffee. I will usually take a half a cup for a café o let with my breakfast. And then after dinner, I like a cup of coffee with lots of cream and sugar – something sweet after the meal.
How can someone so in love with coffee never have been to a Starbucks? Basically I have contempt for coffee snobs – people who need their café mocha Kilimanjaro roast with hazelnut cream. They don’t love coffee. You can’t love coffee if you will drink it only one way. If you love it, you would never pour the cold coffee down the sink. If you love it, you drink coffee cold, black, with cream, with sugar. The love of coffee knows no arbitrary boundaries. Love without borders or limits is how I explain my feeling for coffee.
Still I digress. The Starbucks I went into in Nagoya was nice, clean, well lit with several comfortable chairs and some soft jazz playing in the background. The building where the Starbucks was located was a modern concrete and glass affair, but the Starbucks was modeled as though it had been part of a renovated warehouse. The walls were faux brick. There were classic Jazz posters for Charlie Parker and Dave Brubeck on the walls. Small piles of books like the Catcher in the Rye were artfully collecting dust on shelves. I imagined it looked like any Starbucks anywhere in the world. The overstuffed chairs were comfortable and the coffee was good, but there was an inauthenticity about the place. It would have been fine in Seattle, but it was not of Nagoya. It was a simulation of something organic to another place and time. The decorations were props in a staging of the play The Coffeehouse.
In this respect, McDonald’s is more sincere. It is a fast food restaurant. Each McDonald’s is an archetype of its garish plastic form. McDonald’s does not pretend to be fine dining. It is fast food. Starbucks struck me as a fast food restaurant in denial of its true character.
Probably what made me so critical of Starbucks was a trip over the long weekend to a place called Italian Village. Basically it is a shopping mall filled with Italian brands and products. It is located at the Nagoya port and the outdoor mall is designed like a travel brochure for Italy. The roofs are all orange Italian stucco and the streets are cobblestone. There is a full-size model of Michelangelo’s David, canals with gondolas and even a copy of Giotti’s Bell Tower from Florence. An Italy designed for day tripping tourists. Italy without the Ethiopian prostitutes or beaches covered with hypodermic needles. What a great idea.
The Italian Village was crowded with tourists from Singapore or Taiwan all speaking Chinese. Chinese tourists in Japan visiting an Italian shopping mall theme park. Is that what globalization means? A world where we can get our coffee with a side of Seattle Jazz scene circa 1962 and eat our pizza watching the gondolas float past and still be home by dinner.
Now I love coffee. When I wake up the first thing I do is pour myself a cup of the lukewarm leavings from the carafe of the previous day’s coffee. I like the slightly warm or even stone cold coffee first thing in the morning. No sitting around blowing steam over the cup for me. I need that caffeine to hit my neuron gaps as soon as possible. I can slam down two or three of these cool cups so that I can start my day. After Shizuko gets up, she will usually make a pot of fresh coffee. I will usually take a half a cup for a café o let with my breakfast. And then after dinner, I like a cup of coffee with lots of cream and sugar – something sweet after the meal.
How can someone so in love with coffee never have been to a Starbucks? Basically I have contempt for coffee snobs – people who need their café mocha Kilimanjaro roast with hazelnut cream. They don’t love coffee. You can’t love coffee if you will drink it only one way. If you love it, you would never pour the cold coffee down the sink. If you love it, you drink coffee cold, black, with cream, with sugar. The love of coffee knows no arbitrary boundaries. Love without borders or limits is how I explain my feeling for coffee.
Still I digress. The Starbucks I went into in Nagoya was nice, clean, well lit with several comfortable chairs and some soft jazz playing in the background. The building where the Starbucks was located was a modern concrete and glass affair, but the Starbucks was modeled as though it had been part of a renovated warehouse. The walls were faux brick. There were classic Jazz posters for Charlie Parker and Dave Brubeck on the walls. Small piles of books like the Catcher in the Rye were artfully collecting dust on shelves. I imagined it looked like any Starbucks anywhere in the world. The overstuffed chairs were comfortable and the coffee was good, but there was an inauthenticity about the place. It would have been fine in Seattle, but it was not of Nagoya. It was a simulation of something organic to another place and time. The decorations were props in a staging of the play The Coffeehouse.
In this respect, McDonald’s is more sincere. It is a fast food restaurant. Each McDonald’s is an archetype of its garish plastic form. McDonald’s does not pretend to be fine dining. It is fast food. Starbucks struck me as a fast food restaurant in denial of its true character.
Probably what made me so critical of Starbucks was a trip over the long weekend to a place called Italian Village. Basically it is a shopping mall filled with Italian brands and products. It is located at the Nagoya port and the outdoor mall is designed like a travel brochure for Italy. The roofs are all orange Italian stucco and the streets are cobblestone. There is a full-size model of Michelangelo’s David, canals with gondolas and even a copy of Giotti’s Bell Tower from Florence. An Italy designed for day tripping tourists. Italy without the Ethiopian prostitutes or beaches covered with hypodermic needles. What a great idea.
The Italian Village was crowded with tourists from Singapore or Taiwan all speaking Chinese. Chinese tourists in Japan visiting an Italian shopping mall theme park. Is that what globalization means? A world where we can get our coffee with a side of Seattle Jazz scene circa 1962 and eat our pizza watching the gondolas float past and still be home by dinner.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
The Chicken, the pig, and the Ninja
The first time I saw the pig, it was just a glimpse from the corner of my eye as I sped through the GOKISO intersection on my bike, but the second time, I was walking and got a good look at it. I guessed it was a Great Northern gelding. In high school, I had worked on a pig farm and of all the bad jobs I have had in my life, the pig farm was the worst. Still I could recognize a pig when I saw one which just goes to show that nothing you learn is ever wasted. He was big, a big white pig living in the city. I guessed close to 300 pounds.
The woman walking the pig past the video store had dressed him in one of those jackets that dogs wear. She had him on a leash and he was snuffling around the gutters. The early morning commuters coming out of the subway did not give the pig a second look, but Japanese urbanites are a notoriously hard group to shock. The second time I saw the pig, I was reminded of Neville, the ninja and the chicken.
Neville called Adelaide, Australia home but as Adrian, a fellow Aussie, commented, “I don’t think Neville is from the city.” Neville was funny, clever and laidback in the classic Australian way. He had worked every job under the sun – railroad construction, fishing boats, DJ – so naturally he ended up in Asia teaching ESL.
I had known Neville for a couple of months. We had shared a couple of those bonding, expat experiences, but were not great friends. One night at a party Neville pulled me aside and put an arm around my shoulder. “I like you Kelly. I really like you.” Neville had been drinking. “You are a great guy. Kelly, I am going to tell you something, but you have to promise to never mention it to anyone.” I expected the usual beery confessions of attraction. The standard coming out of the closet speech, but I was disappointed.
Neville reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. He shuffled through the ID and credit cards before finally pulling out a wrinkled, battered piece of heavy bond paper.
“Before I show you this card, Kelly, you have to promise that you will never tell anyone about this.”
I was curious, but feigned indifference. “If you don’t think you should show me, don’t.”
“No, I want you to know this about me. But you can’t tell anyone.”
“OK. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Swear it, Kelly. Look me in the eyes and swear that you will never reveal what you learned tonight. Swear it!”
Neville’s eyes were bloodshot from the alcohol and his voice had taken on a hard edge. I did not want any trouble. The easiest way out of this ridiculous situation seemed to be to play along. I looked into his red-rimmed eyes and swore that I would never reveal the secrets learned tonight.
Neville handed the card over. It was a simple piece of heavy bond paper, heavily worn and wrinkled from much handling. This was a little before the PC boom took off and it looked as though the card had been typed on a typewriter and where the member’s name would go, there was a line and the name written in ink by hand with a ballpoint pen.
I looked more closely and read the typed letter. “This is to certify that Neville Thomson has been accepted into the eternal order of the ninja.” I looked up and Neville leaned in close, “I am a ninja, Kelly. I am a fucking ninja. These hands can kill.” I thought he was taking the piss. Neville’s sense of humor could be pretty dry, but I decided to play it straight. “Neville, that is so cool. I won’t tell anyone.” I looked solidly into his eyes and reverently handed the card back to him.
We all worked nights. Classes finished at 9:00 or 10:00 and then with the requisite beers after work, we usually did not get home until 1:00 or 2:00 or 3:00. For teachers on the night shift, classes usually began at 1:00 or 3:00 in the afternoon which is plenty of time to recover, but Neville started showing up looking a little rough. When questioned, all he would say was, “That fucking chicken.” It turned out that the landlord of Neville’s apartment lived on the third floor of the same building and recently, the owner’s elderly father had moved into the city from his farm and brought with him a rooster as a reminder of his previous life and a pet.
The rooster lived on the balcony, two stories above Neville’s apartment. The rooster crowed, just as roosters are supposed to. He started crowing at dawn, 5:00 or 6:00 in the morning, but crowed pretty much all day. For someone who worked nights and especially someone of Neville’s nocturnal habits, a rooster crowing would be more than a simple distraction.
The rooster crowed one Saturday when I was visiting. It was loud. We had had chickens on our farm when I was growing up, but a rooster crowing on a farm and a rooster crowing on the balcony of an apartment two stories above your head, sound very different. When the rooster started crowing, Neville rushed onto his small balcony and started shouting into the air, “Shut that bloody bird up!”
I followed and looking up saw the rooster walking along the railing of the balcony two stories up. It was a handsome bird, a dark Rhode Island Red I guessed with striking red and black coloring. The rooster paused and crowed again. Neville’s face was red, “Shut the bloody fuck up!” Suddenly, the face of an elderly man popped over the balcony. It must have been the landlord’s father. He was old and bald. He was laughing and standing below him we stared straight into his toothless mouth.
The old man smiled and laughed. He petted the rooster, saying, “pretty, pretty.” In a minute, both the old man and the rooster disappeared from sight. Neville was livid. He was spitting mad. “Fucking bird. I am going to kill the damn thing.”
“The old guy is senile. The bird’s his pet.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn if it is his pet. It is illegal to keep farm animals in a domestic situation.”
That sounded good. But I didn’t know what he meant. “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t keep farm animals in an apartment building. It is a health hazard and a public nuisance.”
“Ah. Maybe in Australia it is illegal, but this is Asia. Regulations are much looser. There is a motorcycle shop by my house. I see the guy poring oil down the storm sewer everyday. There ought to be a regulation about that.”
“Kelly, I don’t give a damn about your motorcycle repair guy. I am talking to the police.”
“Well, good luck with that.”
I don’t know if Neville ever called the police, but they did come by the school a couple of days later looking for Neville. I learned from the secretary later that the rooster had turned up dead. The old man had found it the previous morning lying on the floor of the balcony with it’s neck broken. The landlord suspected Neville and the police had come to ask him some questions.
Neville denied everything. The whole thing might have blown over, but the old man was upset and screamed whenever he saw Neville and in the end it was decided that it would be in everyone’s interest if he moved to another apartment.
I went over to help him move. While bringing in some stuff from the balcony, I looked at the wall of the building. It was brick and as part of an ornamental pattern some of the bricks were recessed into the wall while others stuck out. They could be used as handholds to climb to the third floor. It would not be easy, but it could be done.
I went into the apartment. Neville was packing. “Neville,” I asked, “Did you kill that guy’s rooster?”
Neville paused. He stood up and gave me a serious look. “Kelly, I like you, but a Ninja can never discuss his work. It’s part of the code, Kelly. You should understand that.”
I hoped the woman with the pig didn’t live near any Ninja. But pigs are quieter and harder to kill than chickens, so they are probably OK.
The woman walking the pig past the video store had dressed him in one of those jackets that dogs wear. She had him on a leash and he was snuffling around the gutters. The early morning commuters coming out of the subway did not give the pig a second look, but Japanese urbanites are a notoriously hard group to shock. The second time I saw the pig, I was reminded of Neville, the ninja and the chicken.
Neville called Adelaide, Australia home but as Adrian, a fellow Aussie, commented, “I don’t think Neville is from the city.” Neville was funny, clever and laidback in the classic Australian way. He had worked every job under the sun – railroad construction, fishing boats, DJ – so naturally he ended up in Asia teaching ESL.
I had known Neville for a couple of months. We had shared a couple of those bonding, expat experiences, but were not great friends. One night at a party Neville pulled me aside and put an arm around my shoulder. “I like you Kelly. I really like you.” Neville had been drinking. “You are a great guy. Kelly, I am going to tell you something, but you have to promise to never mention it to anyone.” I expected the usual beery confessions of attraction. The standard coming out of the closet speech, but I was disappointed.
Neville reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. He shuffled through the ID and credit cards before finally pulling out a wrinkled, battered piece of heavy bond paper.
“Before I show you this card, Kelly, you have to promise that you will never tell anyone about this.”
I was curious, but feigned indifference. “If you don’t think you should show me, don’t.”
“No, I want you to know this about me. But you can’t tell anyone.”
“OK. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Swear it, Kelly. Look me in the eyes and swear that you will never reveal what you learned tonight. Swear it!”
Neville’s eyes were bloodshot from the alcohol and his voice had taken on a hard edge. I did not want any trouble. The easiest way out of this ridiculous situation seemed to be to play along. I looked into his red-rimmed eyes and swore that I would never reveal the secrets learned tonight.
Neville handed the card over. It was a simple piece of heavy bond paper, heavily worn and wrinkled from much handling. This was a little before the PC boom took off and it looked as though the card had been typed on a typewriter and where the member’s name would go, there was a line and the name written in ink by hand with a ballpoint pen.
I looked more closely and read the typed letter. “This is to certify that Neville Thomson has been accepted into the eternal order of the ninja.” I looked up and Neville leaned in close, “I am a ninja, Kelly. I am a fucking ninja. These hands can kill.” I thought he was taking the piss. Neville’s sense of humor could be pretty dry, but I decided to play it straight. “Neville, that is so cool. I won’t tell anyone.” I looked solidly into his eyes and reverently handed the card back to him.
We all worked nights. Classes finished at 9:00 or 10:00 and then with the requisite beers after work, we usually did not get home until 1:00 or 2:00 or 3:00. For teachers on the night shift, classes usually began at 1:00 or 3:00 in the afternoon which is plenty of time to recover, but Neville started showing up looking a little rough. When questioned, all he would say was, “That fucking chicken.” It turned out that the landlord of Neville’s apartment lived on the third floor of the same building and recently, the owner’s elderly father had moved into the city from his farm and brought with him a rooster as a reminder of his previous life and a pet.
The rooster lived on the balcony, two stories above Neville’s apartment. The rooster crowed, just as roosters are supposed to. He started crowing at dawn, 5:00 or 6:00 in the morning, but crowed pretty much all day. For someone who worked nights and especially someone of Neville’s nocturnal habits, a rooster crowing would be more than a simple distraction.
The rooster crowed one Saturday when I was visiting. It was loud. We had had chickens on our farm when I was growing up, but a rooster crowing on a farm and a rooster crowing on the balcony of an apartment two stories above your head, sound very different. When the rooster started crowing, Neville rushed onto his small balcony and started shouting into the air, “Shut that bloody bird up!”
I followed and looking up saw the rooster walking along the railing of the balcony two stories up. It was a handsome bird, a dark Rhode Island Red I guessed with striking red and black coloring. The rooster paused and crowed again. Neville’s face was red, “Shut the bloody fuck up!” Suddenly, the face of an elderly man popped over the balcony. It must have been the landlord’s father. He was old and bald. He was laughing and standing below him we stared straight into his toothless mouth.
The old man smiled and laughed. He petted the rooster, saying, “pretty, pretty.” In a minute, both the old man and the rooster disappeared from sight. Neville was livid. He was spitting mad. “Fucking bird. I am going to kill the damn thing.”
“The old guy is senile. The bird’s his pet.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn if it is his pet. It is illegal to keep farm animals in a domestic situation.”
That sounded good. But I didn’t know what he meant. “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t keep farm animals in an apartment building. It is a health hazard and a public nuisance.”
“Ah. Maybe in Australia it is illegal, but this is Asia. Regulations are much looser. There is a motorcycle shop by my house. I see the guy poring oil down the storm sewer everyday. There ought to be a regulation about that.”
“Kelly, I don’t give a damn about your motorcycle repair guy. I am talking to the police.”
“Well, good luck with that.”
I don’t know if Neville ever called the police, but they did come by the school a couple of days later looking for Neville. I learned from the secretary later that the rooster had turned up dead. The old man had found it the previous morning lying on the floor of the balcony with it’s neck broken. The landlord suspected Neville and the police had come to ask him some questions.
Neville denied everything. The whole thing might have blown over, but the old man was upset and screamed whenever he saw Neville and in the end it was decided that it would be in everyone’s interest if he moved to another apartment.
I went over to help him move. While bringing in some stuff from the balcony, I looked at the wall of the building. It was brick and as part of an ornamental pattern some of the bricks were recessed into the wall while others stuck out. They could be used as handholds to climb to the third floor. It would not be easy, but it could be done.
I went into the apartment. Neville was packing. “Neville,” I asked, “Did you kill that guy’s rooster?”
Neville paused. He stood up and gave me a serious look. “Kelly, I like you, but a Ninja can never discuss his work. It’s part of the code, Kelly. You should understand that.”
I hoped the woman with the pig didn’t live near any Ninja. But pigs are quieter and harder to kill than chickens, so they are probably OK.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
The Hospital
When I first tell people that I broke my kneecap they are usually sympathetic. When I tell people I broke it riding my bike down the concrete stairs on the campus of the local university, they are less sympathetic. I was riding down the stairs when the chain slipped. The bike fell away beneath me and my right knee slapped the concrete steps.
I did not really give the accident much thought. I bounced up and thought, “Man, I hope no one saw that.” I pushed my bike to the bottom of the stairs and remounted. The knee hurt, but I thought it was just a bad bruise. I rode home, took a couple of aspirin and went to bed. I couldn’t sleep. The leg kept throbbing. I woke up around 5;00 and the knee was the size of a muskmelon and covered with a nasty bruise. I could stand up, but the leg would not bear any weight.
Shizuko called a taxi to take me to the hospital emergency room. Everyone has an emergency room story where they sit and sit. This story is no different. I sat and sat and finally after an hour, I hobbled myself over to the desk and asked if someone had called my name. I was not really an emergency. It had been eight hours since the accident and I was not going to die, still when the receptionist told me point blank that they had just forgotten about me, I was a little surprised. She apologized. It was not to be the last apology of the day.
About ten minutes later two orderlies appeared. They asked what the problem was and I explained that I thought I had broken my leg. They suggested X-rays would be useful in determining whether I had broken my leg. I concurred. They asked me to follow them and walked off. I stood and promptly fell against the wall. The orderlies looked back to see what was keeping me. I was trying to hop along, keeping one hand on the wall.
The nurse at the desk, in that voice that seems the unique talent of middle-aged Japanese women speaking to young men, said, “He’s got a broken leg. Get a wheelchair.” The ‘you daft gits’ was implied, but clear.
The orderlies hustled off, after apologizing, and returned with a wheelchair. I was soon seated and being pushed down the hallway. All too quickly the ride ended and we came to a doorway. The doorway looked liked doors to a kitchen in a restaurant. Two doors hung on hinges that swung either way. Unfortunately, the space opened by the doors was less than the width of the wheelchair.
I had to stand, hop through the doorway while the orderlies folded up the wheelchair and carried it through the doorway. This happened three times before we reached the staircase. The orderlies looked at me expectantly. After a moment they apologized. I did not understand. Finally, they explained. The X-ray room was on the third floor. I would have to walk. They apologized.
“Where is the elevator?” I asked. This was the largest hospital in Kumamoto.
They apologized and then explained that the hospital was currently being renovated and that the elevators were unavailable. They apologized.
I stood, took one step and sat down heavily on the stairs. I pulled myself up, one step at a time, to the third floor. It took me about 20 minutes and by the time we reached the third floor, I was covered with sweat.
Back in the wheelchair, I was pushed the 100meters down the hall to the X-ray room. Once in the room, I had to hop over to the X-ray table and pull myself up another step, before climbing onto the table itself.
After X-rays, the doctor came to see me. He seemed competent and offered me two choices – surgery or the cast. I was terrified of surgery at a hospital without an elevator and opted for six weeks in the cast.
I still don’t know if I made the right decision. The cast is off, but my leg is weak and now I have a tendency to stand flat-footed, which makes my back hurt. I now have one of those knees that hurts when it rains. And instead of it being from some old football injury or combat in the Gulf War, it is just from getting drunk and riding my bike down some stairs like a jerk.
I did not really give the accident much thought. I bounced up and thought, “Man, I hope no one saw that.” I pushed my bike to the bottom of the stairs and remounted. The knee hurt, but I thought it was just a bad bruise. I rode home, took a couple of aspirin and went to bed. I couldn’t sleep. The leg kept throbbing. I woke up around 5;00 and the knee was the size of a muskmelon and covered with a nasty bruise. I could stand up, but the leg would not bear any weight.
Shizuko called a taxi to take me to the hospital emergency room. Everyone has an emergency room story where they sit and sit. This story is no different. I sat and sat and finally after an hour, I hobbled myself over to the desk and asked if someone had called my name. I was not really an emergency. It had been eight hours since the accident and I was not going to die, still when the receptionist told me point blank that they had just forgotten about me, I was a little surprised. She apologized. It was not to be the last apology of the day.
About ten minutes later two orderlies appeared. They asked what the problem was and I explained that I thought I had broken my leg. They suggested X-rays would be useful in determining whether I had broken my leg. I concurred. They asked me to follow them and walked off. I stood and promptly fell against the wall. The orderlies looked back to see what was keeping me. I was trying to hop along, keeping one hand on the wall.
The nurse at the desk, in that voice that seems the unique talent of middle-aged Japanese women speaking to young men, said, “He’s got a broken leg. Get a wheelchair.” The ‘you daft gits’ was implied, but clear.
The orderlies hustled off, after apologizing, and returned with a wheelchair. I was soon seated and being pushed down the hallway. All too quickly the ride ended and we came to a doorway. The doorway looked liked doors to a kitchen in a restaurant. Two doors hung on hinges that swung either way. Unfortunately, the space opened by the doors was less than the width of the wheelchair.
I had to stand, hop through the doorway while the orderlies folded up the wheelchair and carried it through the doorway. This happened three times before we reached the staircase. The orderlies looked at me expectantly. After a moment they apologized. I did not understand. Finally, they explained. The X-ray room was on the third floor. I would have to walk. They apologized.
“Where is the elevator?” I asked. This was the largest hospital in Kumamoto.
They apologized and then explained that the hospital was currently being renovated and that the elevators were unavailable. They apologized.
I stood, took one step and sat down heavily on the stairs. I pulled myself up, one step at a time, to the third floor. It took me about 20 minutes and by the time we reached the third floor, I was covered with sweat.
Back in the wheelchair, I was pushed the 100meters down the hall to the X-ray room. Once in the room, I had to hop over to the X-ray table and pull myself up another step, before climbing onto the table itself.
After X-rays, the doctor came to see me. He seemed competent and offered me two choices – surgery or the cast. I was terrified of surgery at a hospital without an elevator and opted for six weeks in the cast.
I still don’t know if I made the right decision. The cast is off, but my leg is weak and now I have a tendency to stand flat-footed, which makes my back hurt. I now have one of those knees that hurts when it rains. And instead of it being from some old football injury or combat in the Gulf War, it is just from getting drunk and riding my bike down some stairs like a jerk.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
A Thousand Dollars!!
The first car I bought in Japan was a Honda Accord LX. It was nine years old and had about 50,000 kilometers on the odometer. It cost one hundred thousand yen (about $1,000). This was most expensive car I had ever owned. To put this in perspective one has to understand that the two cars I had owned previous were a 1976 Pontiac Astre and a 1978 Chevy truck.
The Astre was one of Detroit’s first responses to the oil crunch in the 70s and the best thing I can say is that it always started. It might stall or stop immediately, but it always started. It had over 200,000 miles on it, leaked oil and most of the body had been replaced by sheet metal held on by pop rivets when I finally sold it for $60 to a guy who had just got out of prison and needed the car to drive to his job at Burger King. He could not pay the $60 dollars all at once, but stopped three Fridays in a row with $20.
The truck had a straight eight-cylinder engine. The body was mostly rusted out, but once it got its speed up the truck could fly. It literally looked like it was flying going down the highway with its rusted quarter panels flapping in the wind like the wings of a bat out of hell, filling the rear view mirrors of cars before it sped past them at over 100 miles per hour.
When I checked the blue book value of the Honda online, I could not find one that had so few miles, but 5 – 10 thousand dollars seemed to be the average price for a Honda Accord LX in the US. Used cars are cheap in Japan. The reason I learned was because of something called SHA-KEN.
The word is formed by two Kanji characters: 車 car and 検 inspection. Quite simple really, it means a car inspection. Three years after they are purchased new, all cars must be inspected every two years to insure that they meet certain safety requirements. Drivers take their cars to service stations and mechanics check the brake pads, tire tread, windshield wipers, etc.
The kicker is the price. If nothing is wrong with the car, the inspection for a 1500 cc engine is about one thousand dollars. Parts and labor to replace worn parts push the price up.
About three months after I bought the car, it was due for its SHA-KEN checkup. We drove the car down to the local service station waited while the mechanics checked the car out. For the education of the customers, the lobby of the garage was decorated with used car parts demonstrating how much tread was necessary on a tire and how much a break pad was needed to pass the inspection. I wandered around and checked these displays out.
After the inspection was complete, the mechanic invited us back to have a look at the car. The car was on a lift in the garage with its tires off so that we could see the pads and the struts. The idea had struck me that this was a government issued license to steal. The garage could fail a car just to sell unnecessary parts. Primed with the knowledge gleaned from the lobby displays, I was ready to resist any selling pressure.
First the mechanic showed me one of the tires. “This is your tire. When the tread gets too worn, it is very dangerous. You could have puncture.” I looked down at the tread. I slid a ten yen coin into the tire tread. In the US we had been told to use a penny and the tread should reach Abe’s head. The ten yen coin slid in what looked to me an approximately as far as Lincoln’s brow line.
“There is plenty of tread on this tire,” I said a little aggressively.
“Yes,” the mechanic agreed. “This tire is fine.”
Next, we looked at the brake pads. “This is the brake pad,” the mechanic explained. “If the pad is too worn, it is very dangerous. The car might not stop and you could have an accident.”
I had just studied the brake pads in the lobby. “This brake pad is fine. There is plenty of pad left.” Again I was aggressive.
The mechanic agreed immediately, “Yes, this brake pad is fine.”
The conversation was not going the way I had imagined. The mechanic would point out the dangers of worn parts. I would point out that there was no problem and he would immediately cave and agree with me. It was not exactly the hard sell that I had been anticipating.
I began to get nervous. Maybe I was missing something. My knowledge of car maintenance is pretty spotty and except for what I had gleaned from the crash course in the lobby, I had no knowledge of what was safe or not.
There was another lift with a car being inspected in the garage. The car looked pretty new, probably its first time and the mechanic was showing the owner a young woman around the car. I eavesdropped on their conversation. “This is the brake pad,” the woman’s mechanic explained saying exactly the same thing I had heard moments before. “If the pad is too worn, it is very dangerous. The car might not stop and you could have an accident.”
“Is this pad OK?” the woman asked.
“It would be better if it were new,” the mechanic replied.
“Should I change it?” she it asked.
“It would be safer if it were new,” the mechanic repeated.
“Please change it,” the woman said.
“I understand,” said the mechanic.
Everything was clear to me now. The customer had to ask for the unnecessary parts. Brilliant.
In the end, the expiration date on my highway flare had expired and I needed new windshield wipers. I paid one hundred and ten thousand yen and was bowed out of the service center’s parking lot.
That was my first experience with SHA-KEN over ten years ago now. I consider it a testament to how far I have come in Japan that when the mechanic says, “There is nothing wrong with your car. Please pay one hundred thousand yen to the cashier” it does not even strike me as odd anymore.
I wonder what I would have had to pay to bring the Astre or that old Chevy truck up to code.
The Astre was one of Detroit’s first responses to the oil crunch in the 70s and the best thing I can say is that it always started. It might stall or stop immediately, but it always started. It had over 200,000 miles on it, leaked oil and most of the body had been replaced by sheet metal held on by pop rivets when I finally sold it for $60 to a guy who had just got out of prison and needed the car to drive to his job at Burger King. He could not pay the $60 dollars all at once, but stopped three Fridays in a row with $20.
The truck had a straight eight-cylinder engine. The body was mostly rusted out, but once it got its speed up the truck could fly. It literally looked like it was flying going down the highway with its rusted quarter panels flapping in the wind like the wings of a bat out of hell, filling the rear view mirrors of cars before it sped past them at over 100 miles per hour.
When I checked the blue book value of the Honda online, I could not find one that had so few miles, but 5 – 10 thousand dollars seemed to be the average price for a Honda Accord LX in the US. Used cars are cheap in Japan. The reason I learned was because of something called SHA-KEN.
The word is formed by two Kanji characters: 車 car and 検 inspection. Quite simple really, it means a car inspection. Three years after they are purchased new, all cars must be inspected every two years to insure that they meet certain safety requirements. Drivers take their cars to service stations and mechanics check the brake pads, tire tread, windshield wipers, etc.
The kicker is the price. If nothing is wrong with the car, the inspection for a 1500 cc engine is about one thousand dollars. Parts and labor to replace worn parts push the price up.
About three months after I bought the car, it was due for its SHA-KEN checkup. We drove the car down to the local service station waited while the mechanics checked the car out. For the education of the customers, the lobby of the garage was decorated with used car parts demonstrating how much tread was necessary on a tire and how much a break pad was needed to pass the inspection. I wandered around and checked these displays out.
After the inspection was complete, the mechanic invited us back to have a look at the car. The car was on a lift in the garage with its tires off so that we could see the pads and the struts. The idea had struck me that this was a government issued license to steal. The garage could fail a car just to sell unnecessary parts. Primed with the knowledge gleaned from the lobby displays, I was ready to resist any selling pressure.
First the mechanic showed me one of the tires. “This is your tire. When the tread gets too worn, it is very dangerous. You could have puncture.” I looked down at the tread. I slid a ten yen coin into the tire tread. In the US we had been told to use a penny and the tread should reach Abe’s head. The ten yen coin slid in what looked to me an approximately as far as Lincoln’s brow line.
“There is plenty of tread on this tire,” I said a little aggressively.
“Yes,” the mechanic agreed. “This tire is fine.”
Next, we looked at the brake pads. “This is the brake pad,” the mechanic explained. “If the pad is too worn, it is very dangerous. The car might not stop and you could have an accident.”
I had just studied the brake pads in the lobby. “This brake pad is fine. There is plenty of pad left.” Again I was aggressive.
The mechanic agreed immediately, “Yes, this brake pad is fine.”
The conversation was not going the way I had imagined. The mechanic would point out the dangers of worn parts. I would point out that there was no problem and he would immediately cave and agree with me. It was not exactly the hard sell that I had been anticipating.
I began to get nervous. Maybe I was missing something. My knowledge of car maintenance is pretty spotty and except for what I had gleaned from the crash course in the lobby, I had no knowledge of what was safe or not.
There was another lift with a car being inspected in the garage. The car looked pretty new, probably its first time and the mechanic was showing the owner a young woman around the car. I eavesdropped on their conversation. “This is the brake pad,” the woman’s mechanic explained saying exactly the same thing I had heard moments before. “If the pad is too worn, it is very dangerous. The car might not stop and you could have an accident.”
“Is this pad OK?” the woman asked.
“It would be better if it were new,” the mechanic replied.
“Should I change it?” she it asked.
“It would be safer if it were new,” the mechanic repeated.
“Please change it,” the woman said.
“I understand,” said the mechanic.
Everything was clear to me now. The customer had to ask for the unnecessary parts. Brilliant.
In the end, the expiration date on my highway flare had expired and I needed new windshield wipers. I paid one hundred and ten thousand yen and was bowed out of the service center’s parking lot.
That was my first experience with SHA-KEN over ten years ago now. I consider it a testament to how far I have come in Japan that when the mechanic says, “There is nothing wrong with your car. Please pay one hundred thousand yen to the cashier” it does not even strike me as odd anymore.
I wonder what I would have had to pay to bring the Astre or that old Chevy truck up to code.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Teaching the Test
Japan’s population is falling. In 2008, the number of places available for incoming students will exceed the number of college age young people. Already universities are competing to attract this dwindling number of students. Coupled with this decline is a sputtering in Japan’s economy. Since Japan’s stock market and real estate bubble crashed, companies have cut back on new hires and the job market for non-college graduates has been tighter than ever. Whether or not the students are interested in college courses, it seems a safe place to spend a few years before entering the job market.
Back in the good old days, when there were more applicants than places, the entrance exams simply scooped up a number of students without worrying too much about whether or not the students were of a suitable level. All of the students applying possessed the basic skills for success in college. Now as universities reach further and further down the intelligence quotient they have started to question how to insure that students are college ready.
My favorite entrance exam story deals with a Chinese student. Foreign students usually don’t have to take the standard entrance exam. An essay or an interview is usually sufficient. When the Chinese student applied, she was asked to write an essay and then a department meeting was held to approve or disapprove her application. No one questioned whether the girl had the English ability to enter the English department, a table or other suitably stable piece of furniture would possess the English ability required to entire my department. But some worried that because Japanese was not her native language she might have trouble understanding registration or other administration tasks. The department head held up her essay and pointed to a line and said, “She writes Japanese beautifully. She even knows the character for I SHO KEN MEI (to do one's best).”
Writing Japanese is difficult. There are three scripts – four if you include the Roman alphabet. Two of the scripts are phonetic and these are relatively easy to learn and write. But a lot of vocabulary has been borrowed from Chinese and these words are written with Chinese characters, KANJI.
The phrase "to do one's best" , I SHO KEN MEI, consists of four characters. It looks like this:
One can see how this is easier. But in China, they don’t use a phonetic script and if one wants to write about doing one's best, one must use the Chinese character.
When the department head held up the Chinese student’s essay and pointed to the complicated character she could write, my immediate reaction was, “Of course she can write the Chinese character, you daft old git. She is Chinese!” But I was alone in my protests. The rest of the faculty members were as impressed as the department head and she was admitted.
Chinese students at Japanese universities have become a bit of phenomenon recently. As part of its compensation package of benefits for its brutal treatment of the Chinese people during WWII, the Japanese government provides scholarships for Chinese students. Recently, because of the declining student numbers, Japanese universities have latched onto Chinese scholarship students as a way to fill the gap in their enrollment. The scholarships are of course provided at the taxpayers expense and there is a robbing Peter to pay Paul quality about the system, but it has put butts in the seats as they say.
In some Japanese universities, the percentage of Chinese butts in classroom seats has passed fifty percent and to say that all of them are sincere in their desire to study is belied by reports at one university of an immigration raid that found 90% of the scholarship students had slipped away to Tokyo to work at convenience stores and restaurants full-time rather than go to class.
Still in our case, the student did well. She graduated with honors and even if she could write the character for doing one's best, there is no evidence that she had any reason to attempt it while a student at our university.
Back in the good old days, when there were more applicants than places, the entrance exams simply scooped up a number of students without worrying too much about whether or not the students were of a suitable level. All of the students applying possessed the basic skills for success in college. Now as universities reach further and further down the intelligence quotient they have started to question how to insure that students are college ready.
My favorite entrance exam story deals with a Chinese student. Foreign students usually don’t have to take the standard entrance exam. An essay or an interview is usually sufficient. When the Chinese student applied, she was asked to write an essay and then a department meeting was held to approve or disapprove her application. No one questioned whether the girl had the English ability to enter the English department, a table or other suitably stable piece of furniture would possess the English ability required to entire my department. But some worried that because Japanese was not her native language she might have trouble understanding registration or other administration tasks. The department head held up her essay and pointed to a line and said, “She writes Japanese beautifully. She even knows the character for I SHO KEN MEI (to do one's best).”
Writing Japanese is difficult. There are three scripts – four if you include the Roman alphabet. Two of the scripts are phonetic and these are relatively easy to learn and write. But a lot of vocabulary has been borrowed from Chinese and these words are written with Chinese characters, KANJI.
The phrase "to do one's best" , I SHO KEN MEI, consists of four characters. It looks like this:
一生懸命
The character in the middle, pronounced KEN, is complicated and most Japanese when they write by hand don’t use the Chinese character. Instead, they write it phonetically so it looks like this:一生けん命
One can see how this is easier. But in China, they don’t use a phonetic script and if one wants to write about doing one's best, one must use the Chinese character.
When the department head held up the Chinese student’s essay and pointed to the complicated character she could write, my immediate reaction was, “Of course she can write the Chinese character, you daft old git. She is Chinese!” But I was alone in my protests. The rest of the faculty members were as impressed as the department head and she was admitted.
Chinese students at Japanese universities have become a bit of phenomenon recently. As part of its compensation package of benefits for its brutal treatment of the Chinese people during WWII, the Japanese government provides scholarships for Chinese students. Recently, because of the declining student numbers, Japanese universities have latched onto Chinese scholarship students as a way to fill the gap in their enrollment. The scholarships are of course provided at the taxpayers expense and there is a robbing Peter to pay Paul quality about the system, but it has put butts in the seats as they say.
In some Japanese universities, the percentage of Chinese butts in classroom seats has passed fifty percent and to say that all of them are sincere in their desire to study is belied by reports at one university of an immigration raid that found 90% of the scholarship students had slipped away to Tokyo to work at convenience stores and restaurants full-time rather than go to class.
Still in our case, the student did well. She graduated with honors and even if she could write the character for doing one's best, there is no evidence that she had any reason to attempt it while a student at our university.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Mary-Anne With the Shaky Hands
Dave and I shared two loves. We both loved the Who and we both loved Mary-Anne. Whenever she entered the teachers’ room, Dave would start in with the Pete Townsend lyric “Linda can cook” and “I would respond Jean reads books, Cindy can sew” and then together we would sing, “But I'd rather know Mary-Anne with the shaky hands, What they've done to her man, Those shaky hands.”
Mary-Anne was beautiful. She was a Korean-American, adopted at birth by an American couple in Torrance, California. Tall, thin, with buckets of black hair and dark eyes, rooms lit up when she walked in. Raised entirely in the US, she had come to Korea after graduating to learn a little about her roots. She started working as a part time teacher at ELS CHONG NO and had been there about a month, but Dave and I were in love from the first day.
On the last day of the month, the teachers usually went out for a beer after classes finished at ten o’clock. This time Dave invited Mary-Anne along. We ended up at a beer garden on the top of Nansam Mountain in the center of Seoul. The mountain is a park with paths leading down to the neighborhoods around the base of the mountain, one of which is ITAEWON home to the US army base.
Around midnight, the bar was closing down. The curfew in Seoul had recently been reinstated and most of our group had already left. The three of us, Dave, Mary-Anne and I, were finishing up our last beers. Dave had brought his guitar and was casually strumming. I was jealous of Dave’s guitar ability. He was not good looking, bird thin, with a head too big for his body, hands like dinner plates. I had thought he was retarded when I first met him, but as Eddie Van Halen explained, “After I learned to play the guitar, I got all the tail I wanted.”
Dave’s musical ability made him swordsman par excellence among the ELS CHONG-NO staff. When I saw the guitar and heard him gently humming Stairway to Heaven, I guessed I would be going home alone and Mary-Anne would be another notch on Dave’s belt. The idea made me kind of sad, but it seemed right and natural at the time. Imagine my surprise when Mary-Anne stood up, looked at our two shiny, beer perspired faces and then said, “Kelly, can you walk me home. I don’t want to walk through the park alone.”
I had to step past Dave’s seat to get out. I was eager, but paused long enough to lean in to his ear and whisper, “Fuck you Dave.”
I did not have a lot of experience with girls and even though she had invited me to walk her home, I did not know exactly what was expected of me. When we entered the woods, she slipped her hand into mine. The night was hot and muggy, but that is not why my hand was hot and slippery with sweat. Her skin was cool, but she had calluses on her palm. I remembered she did gymnastics. That was in high school, but she still had the calluses. Maybe it was the beer, but I felt calmer after she took my hand. She was leading and that was fine with me, better really. If left up to me we never would have gotten anywhere.
There were benches along the path. She pulled me over to one and we sat down. I turned her hand over to look at the calluses on her palm and then showed her the calluses on my hands I had from installing sprinkler systems before coming to Korea. Soon we started kissing. Just kissing. It was good. A hot, moist night, a couple of beers and now making out with a beautiful girl in a park, life seemed good.
Like those scenes in the teenage slasher flicks where the couple starts to get it on and then gets attacked and killed by some crazed maniac, I felt Mary-Anne stiffen in my arms. “There’s someone in the woods.” She pulled away. “Seriously. Look over there.” She pointed and off the path, in the woods, just outside the light from street lamps was a weird lump – not a tree stump or a rock, but a weird lump. I stood up and walked to the end of the path. I couldn’t tell what it was. I cupped my hands around mouth and called, “Yogio” (Hey, in Korean).
The lump stood up and walked toward the light. It was a man and he was holding his arm out in front of him in a weird way. I took a step back and as he came into the light, I saw it was a policeman and he was holding a gun in his hand stretched out in front of him.
I fell back and stood next to Mary-Anne. The policeman waved the gun at me, but spoke to Mary-Anne , “Kun Chun Ai Yo” (Are you OK?).
I answered in Korean, “We’re OK.”
“Shut up.” The policeman again spoke to Mary-Anne. “Are you OK? Who is this guy?”
I had been in Korea about six months and my Korean was very basic. Two beers and some of the squid with hot sauce, I could manage. Mary-Anne had been in Seoul less than a month and did not speak a word, but she looked like she should and she was the one the policeman wanted to talk too.
“Who is this guy? Is he an American soldier?”
Mary-Anne , shaking slightly, nodded yes, “Ne” (Yes in Korean).
I understood the word soldier and was worried where this was going. Koreans have very mixed feelings about the US military presence and have conservative views about inter-racial relations between the GIs and local females.
“I’m not a GI,” I protested.
“Shut up.” He again spoke to Mary-Anne. “Are you OK?” He said something else I did not understand, but I guessed he wanted to know what our relationship was, was she here against her will.
“Hang Gu Mal Upsio,” she doesn’t speak Korean. I practically screamed. The tension was rising. My heart was beating.
He told me to shut up again. Again he asked Mary-Anne some questions, neither of us understood. The gun was shaking in his hand, moving back and forth between us. I could see he was sweating and nervous.
“Tell him you are my wife,” I spoke to Mary-Anne . “Say ‘Nyobo’.” I did not know the word for girlfriend and I could not explain what we were doing here. He did not listen to me anyway.
The policeman spit out another burst of Korean. His voice sounded angry. Mary-Anne closed her eyes and shouted, “Nyobo!”
The policeman stopped. “Nyobo?” he repeated.
“Ne” Mary-Anne said.
He looked at me, “Nyobo?”
“Nyobo,” I said.
It seemed very quiet. The policeman smiled, but did not lower the gun. With his left hand he gestured for me to come toward him. He waved his hand palm down in the Korean style. I was reassured by this. I had heard that dogs and criminals are gestured to in the palm up Western style so felt relieved that he was being polite.
He moved behind me and put his hand on my shoulder. He pushed me gently off the path and into the woods. He did not say a word, but pushed me again when I paused at the edge of the light. We were going into the woods. He still held the gun in his right hand. I thought he was going to kill me. He was taking me into the woods to shoot me. My knees were knocking and I could hear my heart beating. Mary-Anne was standing alone on the path just watching us go. I looked back and she was crying. He pushed me again.
I was going to die. My muscles did not work right. I was dizzy and my arms and legs felt jangly and loose. He was going to shoot me in the woods and I was going to die. There was an incredible emptiness in my stomach. I felt sick.
We reached a small clearing in the trees. The lights from the path did not reach here, but there was a little light from the stars and the moon. The night was clear. I stopped again. I felt his hand on my shoulder. He leaned in close to me and whispered in English, “Here, very quiet.” My legs had no strength. I was going fall down. He said it again, “Here, very quiet.” And then slowly, he walked away.
To this day, I do not know what he was thinking, what his intention was. Did he expect us continue making out in the woods after having a gun held on us and being interrogated by the police. To just start kissing again seemed ridiculous.
I stood alone for a minute after the policeman had left. I walked back to the path. My legs were still jerky and stiff. I felt exhausted and wanted to sleep. Mary-Anne was still on the path. She did not say anything. She did not hug me the way women in the movies do. We walked down the path in silence. She did not hold my hand.
We reached her apartment building. She went quickly inside without kissing me good night and I took a taxi home.
The next Monday was the start of a new term at ELS CHONG NO. Mary-Anne did not come to work. One of her friends told the director that she had returned to California. She was not coming back to Korea.
“Linda can cook, Jean reads books, Cindy can sew. But I'd rather know Mary-Anne with the shaky hands, What they've done to her man, Those shaky hands.”
Mary-Anne was beautiful. She was a Korean-American, adopted at birth by an American couple in Torrance, California. Tall, thin, with buckets of black hair and dark eyes, rooms lit up when she walked in. Raised entirely in the US, she had come to Korea after graduating to learn a little about her roots. She started working as a part time teacher at ELS CHONG NO and had been there about a month, but Dave and I were in love from the first day.
On the last day of the month, the teachers usually went out for a beer after classes finished at ten o’clock. This time Dave invited Mary-Anne along. We ended up at a beer garden on the top of Nansam Mountain in the center of Seoul. The mountain is a park with paths leading down to the neighborhoods around the base of the mountain, one of which is ITAEWON home to the US army base.
Around midnight, the bar was closing down. The curfew in Seoul had recently been reinstated and most of our group had already left. The three of us, Dave, Mary-Anne and I, were finishing up our last beers. Dave had brought his guitar and was casually strumming. I was jealous of Dave’s guitar ability. He was not good looking, bird thin, with a head too big for his body, hands like dinner plates. I had thought he was retarded when I first met him, but as Eddie Van Halen explained, “After I learned to play the guitar, I got all the tail I wanted.”
Dave’s musical ability made him swordsman par excellence among the ELS CHONG-NO staff. When I saw the guitar and heard him gently humming Stairway to Heaven, I guessed I would be going home alone and Mary-Anne would be another notch on Dave’s belt. The idea made me kind of sad, but it seemed right and natural at the time. Imagine my surprise when Mary-Anne stood up, looked at our two shiny, beer perspired faces and then said, “Kelly, can you walk me home. I don’t want to walk through the park alone.”
I had to step past Dave’s seat to get out. I was eager, but paused long enough to lean in to his ear and whisper, “Fuck you Dave.”
I did not have a lot of experience with girls and even though she had invited me to walk her home, I did not know exactly what was expected of me. When we entered the woods, she slipped her hand into mine. The night was hot and muggy, but that is not why my hand was hot and slippery with sweat. Her skin was cool, but she had calluses on her palm. I remembered she did gymnastics. That was in high school, but she still had the calluses. Maybe it was the beer, but I felt calmer after she took my hand. She was leading and that was fine with me, better really. If left up to me we never would have gotten anywhere.
There were benches along the path. She pulled me over to one and we sat down. I turned her hand over to look at the calluses on her palm and then showed her the calluses on my hands I had from installing sprinkler systems before coming to Korea. Soon we started kissing. Just kissing. It was good. A hot, moist night, a couple of beers and now making out with a beautiful girl in a park, life seemed good.
Like those scenes in the teenage slasher flicks where the couple starts to get it on and then gets attacked and killed by some crazed maniac, I felt Mary-Anne stiffen in my arms. “There’s someone in the woods.” She pulled away. “Seriously. Look over there.” She pointed and off the path, in the woods, just outside the light from street lamps was a weird lump – not a tree stump or a rock, but a weird lump. I stood up and walked to the end of the path. I couldn’t tell what it was. I cupped my hands around mouth and called, “Yogio” (Hey, in Korean).
The lump stood up and walked toward the light. It was a man and he was holding his arm out in front of him in a weird way. I took a step back and as he came into the light, I saw it was a policeman and he was holding a gun in his hand stretched out in front of him.
I fell back and stood next to Mary-Anne. The policeman waved the gun at me, but spoke to Mary-Anne , “Kun Chun Ai Yo” (Are you OK?).
I answered in Korean, “We’re OK.”
“Shut up.” The policeman again spoke to Mary-Anne. “Are you OK? Who is this guy?”
I had been in Korea about six months and my Korean was very basic. Two beers and some of the squid with hot sauce, I could manage. Mary-Anne had been in Seoul less than a month and did not speak a word, but she looked like she should and she was the one the policeman wanted to talk too.
“Who is this guy? Is he an American soldier?”
Mary-Anne , shaking slightly, nodded yes, “Ne” (Yes in Korean).
I understood the word soldier and was worried where this was going. Koreans have very mixed feelings about the US military presence and have conservative views about inter-racial relations between the GIs and local females.
“I’m not a GI,” I protested.
“Shut up.” He again spoke to Mary-Anne. “Are you OK?” He said something else I did not understand, but I guessed he wanted to know what our relationship was, was she here against her will.
“Hang Gu Mal Upsio,” she doesn’t speak Korean. I practically screamed. The tension was rising. My heart was beating.
He told me to shut up again. Again he asked Mary-Anne some questions, neither of us understood. The gun was shaking in his hand, moving back and forth between us. I could see he was sweating and nervous.
“Tell him you are my wife,” I spoke to Mary-Anne . “Say ‘Nyobo’.” I did not know the word for girlfriend and I could not explain what we were doing here. He did not listen to me anyway.
The policeman spit out another burst of Korean. His voice sounded angry. Mary-Anne closed her eyes and shouted, “Nyobo!”
The policeman stopped. “Nyobo?” he repeated.
“Ne” Mary-Anne said.
He looked at me, “Nyobo?”
“Nyobo,” I said.
It seemed very quiet. The policeman smiled, but did not lower the gun. With his left hand he gestured for me to come toward him. He waved his hand palm down in the Korean style. I was reassured by this. I had heard that dogs and criminals are gestured to in the palm up Western style so felt relieved that he was being polite.
He moved behind me and put his hand on my shoulder. He pushed me gently off the path and into the woods. He did not say a word, but pushed me again when I paused at the edge of the light. We were going into the woods. He still held the gun in his right hand. I thought he was going to kill me. He was taking me into the woods to shoot me. My knees were knocking and I could hear my heart beating. Mary-Anne was standing alone on the path just watching us go. I looked back and she was crying. He pushed me again.
I was going to die. My muscles did not work right. I was dizzy and my arms and legs felt jangly and loose. He was going to shoot me in the woods and I was going to die. There was an incredible emptiness in my stomach. I felt sick.
We reached a small clearing in the trees. The lights from the path did not reach here, but there was a little light from the stars and the moon. The night was clear. I stopped again. I felt his hand on my shoulder. He leaned in close to me and whispered in English, “Here, very quiet.” My legs had no strength. I was going fall down. He said it again, “Here, very quiet.” And then slowly, he walked away.
To this day, I do not know what he was thinking, what his intention was. Did he expect us continue making out in the woods after having a gun held on us and being interrogated by the police. To just start kissing again seemed ridiculous.
I stood alone for a minute after the policeman had left. I walked back to the path. My legs were still jerky and stiff. I felt exhausted and wanted to sleep. Mary-Anne was still on the path. She did not say anything. She did not hug me the way women in the movies do. We walked down the path in silence. She did not hold my hand.
We reached her apartment building. She went quickly inside without kissing me good night and I took a taxi home.
The next Monday was the start of a new term at ELS CHONG NO. Mary-Anne did not come to work. One of her friends told the director that she had returned to California. She was not coming back to Korea.
“Linda can cook, Jean reads books, Cindy can sew. But I'd rather know Mary-Anne with the shaky hands, What they've done to her man, Those shaky hands.”
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