Conversations with Strangers. PART IV.

Boise is a place where strangers do not talk in bars, and they hardly engage in grocery store banter. Boiseans talk to each other in circumstances that would make people in other, larger cities cringe. In Boise, the bus has become a great forum for conversation. Add to this, downtown – especially The Grove and 8^th street – and public parks. I would not be surprised if parking garages could be added to the list. All of these locations are places in which city dwellers around the world put on their “do not talk to me face” and stick in their ear buds, stare vacantly, or talk on the phone to avoid the crazy person attempting to make conversation, attempting to make them vulnerable. In Moscow, people who tried to talk to strangers on public transit – more than just asking for directions – were shunned. In Boise these conversational locations are somehow encouraged, and the longer I stay here, the more I become used to talking to strangers in previously avoided situations. I do not really want to come across as rude, you know. Boise is a place where you can be walking down the street, in typical city body language for “do not even think about it,” and you may be stopped by a random stranger.

Case in point. Date: Saturday, September 21, 2013 Time: around 4:00 p.m. Location: 8^th Street near Jamba Juice and the construction of the new Mormon Temple, sorry, Zion’s Bank.

I was walking at a fairly decent pace down the street toward the Grove. Both of my ear buds were in, and I was listening to Elliott Smith. I was not making eye contact with anyone but looking straight ahead. I hardly noticed the group of kids hanging out by the “rat race” escalator below Shige’s and near Jamba Juice. They are always there. I did not even look over at the new construction, since I see it every day. I did not glance toward the mounds of people I was coming upon. I kept my pace.

Suddenly there was a guy in “punk rock” garb walking alongside me, saying something. I have no idea what he was saying, I was in what they used to call iPod oblivion, which now sounds ridiculous and archaic. When I noticed him, I looked over, kept walking, and raised an eyebrow – as much as possible with my bangs. I took my ear buds out and said in an unwelcoming tone, “What? (as in huh? I did not catch what you were saying because I was listening to music, jack ass.)”

This is my typical tone when someone decides to interrupt my commute. In most circumstances, my hostility turns to friendliness because the person is merely asking for directions to a place that is usually directly in front of them. These circumstances have happened more than once, and the response to my “What?” is usually an “Oh” because for some ridiculous reason, the person did not notice the bright pink things in my ears. And then what follows (if the person is trying to strike up conversation) is an oblivious repeating of whatever they think is so important that they must keep talking, despite my tone.

PUNK ROCK KID’S IMPORTANT CONVERSATION

“Hi. My name is _____.”

I honestly do not remember the kid’s name because I did not care to meet him. I was on a mission – to get to the hair salon. I had not washed my hair in two days and did not particularly feel like talking to strangers, but Boise has worn on me. So, while I kept walking, I did give this kid the time of day but not without taking in his appearance. With a start of a mohawk, a clean, studded camo vest with patches, and no particular odor, this kid quite obviously was not a “real” punk rocker, of the genre that live on the street or ten to an apartment that is supposed to live two. This kid probably lived with his parents or went to Boise State and lived in the dorms. I chuckled to myself. If he only knew the bad asses I hung out with as a teenager.

 “Hi. I’m Kim.”

Without missing a beat the kid said, “You are looking good today, Kim.”

Laughing to myself because of how gross I felt with unwashed hair, wearing jeans and a sweater, I said, “Thanks.” I have to admit this kid had some cojones.

“Can I get your number?” The kid asked.

Continuing to laugh to myself, all the while continuing to walk, I replied, “I don’t even have my phone with me.”

A bit sarcastically this kid said, “Well, do you know your number?”

“Yes, I know my number. What are you going to do with it?”

At that point, I had to stop walking due to the traffic light. There was a small, Boise-sized crowd of people waiting at the light with us.

“I’m going to call you, of course. Well, not today because I don’t have a phone but tomorrow. I will definitely call you tomorrow.”

“Right. So, what are you going to do, memorize my number?” I replied, humored by his ridiculous attempt to seem genuine.

At this point he promptly pulled out the newest little spiral notebook from his breast pocket (another clue that this kid was neither a punk rocker nor a writer). “I’m going to write it in here.”

To humor him, and because he made me laugh, I gave him my number and then said, “How many numbers do you need to win the bet?”

He looked confused, and I had to repeat myself which of course took away from the humor of the situation. But hell, if you are going to ask for a girl’s number in that way, you should expect to be made fun of. As I walked across Main Street and away from this clean cut “punk rocker,” I overheard a couple ladies, from the crowd of people that witnessed most of this situation, asking each other, “What if he asked for your number?” Oh Boise. 

Conversations with Strangers. PART III.

Arrive at park.

Notice a guy folding up an orange blanket and looking like he is going to leave.

Walk to my usual spot, on the hill, underneath the tree, just far enough away from the bench. Set my bag down and take out my maroon, plaid blanket.

Guy wanders aimlessly away from me through the park. I try to ignore him.

Call my mom. Chat about the difficulty of meeting new people.

Guy comes back around and passes me while I talk to my mom. He takes a seat on the bench. Pretends to read. How do I know he is pretending? Too much page flipping and nervous energy emanating off of him. I end the call with my mom and decide to draw.

Draw the swing set. Modify it because I don’t want four swings, just two. It’s an ok sketch, but not wonderful.

Pull out my journal of short stories and start reading the next story – it’s about a soldier.

Think I hear a cicada and remember that I had the same thought when I entered the park. Just one cicada. And then it is gone. Probably not a cicada. Regardless the noise makes me miss Korea. Weird to miss Korea because of an imaginary cicada.

Distracted from the story about the soldier, I start trying to draw a cicada. I only saw one up close once. It was so LOUD. Deafening. Weird ancient looking creature. What did it look like? How big were its wings? I attempt to sketch one.

It looks like a fly.

Try again.

Give up. The google will help me when I get home.

Start writing another letter to my friend in Navy Basic. The story about the soldier made me think of him.

I was lying on my stomach, but now I am sitting. Criss-cross apple sauce, as my students like to say.

“WHAT ARE YOU WRITING?”

I had forgotten about the guy. He is obviously yelling his question to me, but I can be cold at first. I roll my eyes. He can’t see my face. I ignore him.

He comes over. Starts a conversation.

“What are you writing?”

“A letter – archaic form of communication, I know.”

Fuck. That was pretentious. I am pretentious for the rest of the conversation.

He offers me a spritzer – I am unclear what that even means. I like sparkling water and assume it is similar.

“It’s sparking water and juice.”

“Seems French.” 

I continue to be pretentious – I don’t even know why at this point. He is from Seattle. He is not wearing shoes. His Ray-Bans shield his eyes from my pretentiousness. The things I talk about are ridiculous for a conversation with a stranger. Somehow I am talking about refugees and Boise’s public transit and geography. I mention Russia and Korea.

I am an ass.

He is polite – talks about the Payette, his love of Idaho, asks me about my plans for the weekend. I look at my phone, vaguely talk of movie plans.

He tells me to enjoy the movie and makes his move to leave.

It is a bit of an awkward parting.

“Take care!”

He grabs his orange blanket and book from the bench. Walks past me through the park.

I didn’t leave Korea … I just adapted.

I’ve been in Ulsan for seven months, and while there are plenty of hilarious observations that I should be making, the scenery and everyday occurrences have started to meld together. I have become complacent with my life in Korea. With a few glitches here and there, I am able to communicate what I need and go where I want. If something doesn’t work out, I shrug my shoulders, accept, and move on. My request for a double latte that came out as a doppio is hardly worth noting.

Sooo … after two months and only one thing that prompted me to write a blog post, I’ve settled on posting a random list of occurrences and observations.

OCCURRENCE ONE: Please, can I have … your boyfriend?

After nearly seven months of writing “Please, can I have ____?” on the board, in an attempt to steer my students away from saying “Give me …” which feels rude in English, I finally taped some laminated cards with the question in all of the classrooms.

In one class, this prompted all the students to start making requests. They started out as normal, but quickly escalated to ridiculous, quick-fire requests.

Joel, “Please, can I have one dollar?”

Peter, “Please, can I have a million dollars?!”

Hellen, “Please, can I have your hair?”

Amy, “Please, can I have your body?”

Hellen, “Please can I have your boyfriend?”

“Please can I have your husband?”

Perhaps it was the look of shock on my face or some other reaction that prompted the escalation, but in the end I was blushing and shut it down.

OBSERVATION ONE: In Korea I have yet to see a spot of untouched, untamed wilderness.

OBSERVATION TWO: When teaching kindergarteners, sometimes children will just want to climb on you and will call you mom.

OCCURRENCE TWO: A social experiment with a hammock.

Here are the facts:

1) A casual Easter picnic.

2) Conveniently far enough away that the hammock did not seem associated with our group.

3) Accidental. Definite happenstance.

4) Hilarious to observe Koreans interact with something that was not theirs and something some had obviously never interacted with before.

5) Interesting to note that the use of a hammock is fairly intuitive.

OBSERVATION THREE: A country the size of Kentucky with more than 10 times as many people.

Overall life in Korea is comfortable, which gives foreigners room and time to complain. What’s the number one thing, aside from squat toilets, the price of vegetables and fruit, and the lack of whole wheat bread, foreigners (especially from the Western United States) like to complain about? The lack of give and take with personal space.

OBSERVATION FOUR: Dogs are not to be left off the list of things that Koreans have made “cuter.”As if they weren’t cute enough on their own, in Ulsan, they wear dresses on Easter and get pruned and manicured like the landscape, only with dye (purple, blue, green, you name it).

Why Korean English students have English names

In Korea, it is common practice to use English names for students at English academies and in English class at the public schools. Unlike in Russia, where it is a choice of the student who might “Englishize” his or her own name, Kate instead of Katya, for example, the school picks the name.

Usually, the English name has absolutely no relation to their real name. Hye-Lim becomes “Angela.” Su-Bin becomes “Amie.” Occasionally, a student gets lucky and Ji-Oon becomes, “June.”

When I first asked about students having English names, the response was, “Foreigners can’t remember Korean names.”

Um, ok. Way to give us credit.

While, I admit, it might be difficult to do at first, with some effort, any foreigner could learn Korean names. But in an extreme underestimation of the abilities of foreigners, the “easy way out” is given. So, in class, the students use their “English names,” and when you meet a Korean in their twenties who took English, they will introduce themselves with their English name, which is only a first name.

This is all fine and dandy until, as a foreign teacher, you run into something concerning first names and last names.

In English Time, the book series my academy picked out for the foreigner teacher, there is a unit that starts with “What’s your first name?” “What’s your last name?” When I first encountered this, I was unprepared. It was during my first week of classes, when I had absolutely no schedule, so I couldn’t plan my classes.

I stumbled through the lesson.

With role plays, I usually have students change some information, and this one seemed easy. Insert your own name.

The problem I hadn’t anticipated: they only have “first names” in English.

“Teacher, Korean name?!” They asked this in a way that made me feel like they had been threatened NEVER to use their Korean names.

After I thought for two seconds, realized they only had a first name in English, and then said, “Yes, use your Korean name,” a bit of chaos ensued.

The students looked baffled and then, because of the order of their names in Korean, last name first, got even more confused.

I tried to explain group by group, “First name in Korean is last name in the West.”

How confusing is that?!

Finally, it dawned on me.

I wrote my own name on the board, and I got everyone’s attention. Then I said, “Cochrane is my family name. Last name and family name are the same.”

If question marks could appear above heads, they would have.

I repeated, “Cochrane is my family name. My dad is Milton Cochrane. My mom is Debbie Cochrane. My sister is Nichole Cochrane. My brother is Nathan Cochrane … Cochrane is my family name.”

Light bulbs started flickering on.

“In the West we put family names last, so it’s last name. Kimberly is my given name, my first name.”

Overload and the light bulbs went out for most students, but after a bit more work with their Korean names, which they kept trying to tell me their Korean teacher said they couldn’t use, my students finally got it.

Now the question occurs to me, why in the world would a book, made specifically for Korean students, use the words “first name and last name” not “given name and family name or surname” …?

My second encounter with this lesson happened earlier this week, and I was prepared. Before the students even opened their books, we talked about family names.

I had the students tell me their Korean names, and (this is where the story comes full circle) as I attempted to repeat their names with correct pronunciation and intonation, they giggled and insisted I was mispronouncing their names. They had me repeat after them over and over until a classmate asked them to quit, and they shook their heads in disgust.

In the end, it seems English names are preferred by Koreans because they don’t like the way it sounds when a foreigner slaughters their name.

Stereotypes in Ulsan

Occasionally stereotypes hold some general truth, but perhaps more often, they just make me laugh. Below I have simply listed those I have noted, and I tried to refrain from adding any bias to show which ones I think are true and which are hilarious.

Also, please note in Ulsan, the term foreigner is used to describe non-Asian, English speakers, so mainly those coming from America, Cananda, Australia, and South Africa.

• Foreigners need bread
• A foreigner doesn't need a rice cooker
• Foreigner home-cooked food is not salty enough and is "healthy"
• Foreigners can't live without certain sauces: yellow mustard, steak sauce, ketchup, etc.
• Foreigners love coffee. There are restaurants that advertise serving coffee and hot dogs, coffee and spaghetti and waffles, and I think I even saw coffee and beer
• Foreigners, particularly Americans, rely on their mothers to do their laundry, dishes, and other general cleaning
• Foreigners don't like "spicy" food, kimchee, or any other "strange" Korean food
• Foreigners won't eat raw fish or beef

A ridiculous assumption ...

When I got on my first bus here in Ulsan, I noticed a small pouch attached to a bar on what would be considered the passengers’ side of the bus. The pouch was made out of a synthetic, burlap like material and had a loosely woven window which showed its contents. It seemed to hold some small, colored, oval rocks and dangled as we went down the road. My first thought was, huh, strange. I wonder what that is? Maybe a good luck charm or something to protect passengers and drivers?

The next bus I got in, in the same place, I saw the same type of pouch only it was a different color material, with different colored “eggs” in it. This seemed to reaffirm my hypothesis that it was something to do with travel because I hadn’t seen them anywhere else. Not indoors, only in vehicles, particularly buses.

Finally, I noticed a similar pouch in my co-director’s van. It was hanging from the rear view mirror, but contained something which looked like coffee beans. Now, anyone in a different frame of mind, that hadn’t already carved a misconception into stone, would have recognized this for what it was. But, in my made up world, where I had hypothesized a good luck charm and felt it had been reiterated, I furthered my assumption. But research is not only direct observation, so I conducted an interview.

I asked a very leading question, “What is that? Some sort of good luck charm? I’ve also seen them in the bus.” Of course, I was trying to support my previous assumption, rather than remain open to all possible outcomes.

Bless my co-director for not laughing at me or thinking my assumption was silly. She just said, “It’s supposed to make it smell good.”

All the sudden I realized how ridiculous my hypothesis and assumed conclusion had been. It was based not on actual observation, or thorough investigation, but on what little I know of talisman in my own culture and what I know about beliefs in Russian culture. I had made a jump of logic that turned out to be kind of silly. Granted in the States people hang rosaries and Russians had icons in their vehicles so maybe it wasn’t too far of a stretch, but what else hangs on a rear view mirror that is in no way associated with religion? Air fresheners.

The image that popped into my mind immediately after my co-director answered the question was the tree shaped air fresheners people have in the States being interpreted as a good luck charm or some type of talisman. The tree god that protects your car … I wonder how many other assumptions I have made like this that have gone unchecked …?