New location, new blog

Because I am now teaching English in Korea, not Russia, I've created a new blog. You can find "Idaho to Russia to Korea" at http://kimberlykorea.blogspot.com/

Anyong haseyo from Ulsan, Korea

I landed in Busan and settled in Ulsan three days ago. I am currently without internet at home and without a cell phone - relatively minor glitches in an over pleasant experience. In fact, the situation might actually be a blessing because if I had internet, I may not have come up with an excuse to figure out the bus system.

Talking to the co-director and current native English teacher at the school, one would think the bus system must be incredibly inconvenient or complicated. When I asked each of them separately about it, my co-director told me she has no idea because she drives everywhere, and the native teacher said he simply took taxis. After this conversation and the name of my home and school written in Korean in a notebook (so I could get home). I decided that in my first venture to find internet at Starbucks, I would take a taxi.

I woke up in the morning, walked to the main road where I thought I could easily catch a taxi, didn't see any, so I started walking in the direction of where I wanted to go. Ahead of me I saw a bus stop, but it looked a little abandoned. When I got closer, I realized there was no map or schedule, nothing to tell me where the buses go and when they arrive. So, I stood at the bus stop for a bit, thinking perhaps a taxi will pass by and see that I need a ride.

Not very patient, I waited a total of one or two minutes before thinking, "Maybe I'll just walk. It can't really be that far." Perhaps because of the temperature or because I really had no idea where I was headed, I stopped at the next bus stop. Here there were people waiting for the bus, which is always a good sign, and I realized this bus stop had a computerized schedule for the buses. Yet, I thought, I still don't know what bus to take, maybe I'll just take a taxi.

But one did not come very quickly and those that did pass were no where near my side of the road, so much for trying to flag one down. I'd have to stand in the road .... so thinking I need to buck up and practice my tiny bit of Korean, I approached one of the people at the bus stop to try and ask where I could catch a taxi. Well, in English my Korean would have sounded something like this, "Do you know English?" but apparently muddled beyond comprehension because the woman just looked at me like she didn't understand. "English?" I tried. She made a motion to say sort of, so I said, "Taxi?" She didn't understand that word, so I repeated, but the pronunciation of the word must be a bit different in Korean. Finally I said, "Lotte Hotel?" Which is what the native English teacher and my co-director told me everyone will understand, and it was where I needed to go anyway. She lit up and started slowly saying numbers. I'm still not sure how I realized they were numbers as I don't know any numbers in Korean. I stopped her, pulled out a pen and paper and had her write them down. When the right bus came, she got on with me and even helped me get off at the right stop! It was fabulous.

In Russia, this may have happened. Though more than likely I would have had to find an old woman, a babushka, to ask a question like this and she probably wouldn't have followed up to make sure I found the right stop. Oh, and I would have needed to know the language ...

After I got off the bus, I walked to Starbucks and found the internet. I can't believe how dependent I am on this technology ... Great, great, you are thinking, but you may be wondering, how in the world did I get back? Well, I tried to figure out what bus to take, but ended up getting impatient and taking a taxi. I was hungry and needed to get over to the school. Taxis are a bit simpler than buses because I just showed the driver the address my co-director had written down, go to the place, looked at the meter and paid the money. Simple, but expensive -- about 5 times what the bus cost. I will be taking the bus most times. (Since then I have figured out the same numbers head back the same direction, so in the future this will be easy.)

Victory Day and a red rose

I woke up at Rachel’s to the sounds of the airplanes I was hoping not to miss, threw on some clothes, and ran outside to watch the rest of the planes fly toward Red Square. They had been practicing for this, the big day, the 65^th anniversary of the defeat of the Nazis, all week, but there were still some planes I hadn’t seen yet.

BBC "In Pictures" 9 May

After the excitement and adrenaline rush created by planes flying low overhead, I went home, and then went for a walk in the park I recently discovered near my metro stop. I am amazed by this park which feels like wilderness in the middle of a concrete jungle. As I walked I smiled to myself about boys racing their bicycles and girls with improvised roller shoes. I wondered at the grandfather talking to his grandson as he pushed him in his stroller. I noticed litter strewn about – bottles left on trees and juice boxes discarded near the path.

As I walked, I half thought about sitting to read but didn’t rush to find a place. I passed a group in their late teens, standing, talking, drinking, smoking. I wandered, taking in the changing breeze, wondering at how sometimes it smelt so fresh, crisp, and pure, but when I took a few steps further the air smelt stale and worn out - like beer and cigarette smoke. I walked toward the playground, where there was less cigarette smoke and more “nature.” As I wandered further away from the partying teens, I saw an open bench. I assessed the situation – making sure I wasn’t downwind of cigarettes and noticed a young man in uniform with an orange beret. What part of the military is he? Then I sat down to read.

Occasionally, I stopped reading and looked up to take in my surroundings – the children playing, the birds chirping, the beautiful variety of greens and trees around me. Then, I noticed the trash pouring out of the garbage can on my left. The beer bottle caps pressed into the dirt near the bench I was sitting on. I noticed the ants that had come to feast on whatever food particles were left around and the breeze that wafted the scent of early summer blossoms past my nose. As I was reading, I felt in tune and at peace with the juxtaposition of wild and civilized that encompassed me.

Suddenly, I noticed that the young man in the orange beret was walking toward me, in front of me, and then he stopped. I looked up, and he said something in Russian that I didn’t understand but somehow I knew he was saying something nice or sweet. I got a bit flustered and couldn’t think of what to say, my brain stopped, and I felt my cheeks grow warm. Finally, I forced out, “Вы говорите по-английский?” (Do you speak English?) He looked a bit shocked, and said no. I told him, in Russian that my Russian was very bad, and of course, being polite, he said, “No, no, it’s not. You know a lot.” I said, “No I only know a little, but thank you.” Then he asked where I was from and my name. He sat down next to me, and we had a brief conversation where I tried to ask him what branch of the military he worked for. He couldn’t explain in English, and I couldn't understand in Russian, but I figured out later he works for МЧС РОССИЙ (basically like the National Guard – they do civil defense and emergency response). After this struggle to communicate, he presented me with a red rose. Apparently it’s not a tradition that military men give women flowers on Victory Day, and of course, I felt like I should have been doing something for him. Yet, in my flustered state, I was unable to say even, “Happy Victory Day.” I just got out a “Thank you” before he walked off. Rattled, amazed, and of course flattered, I watched him go, disappearing through the park and toward the metro.

A new view of play dough

It was the last day of my pre-advanced adult class, and I decided to bring in Cranium. Before class I went through all the cards to make sure that the language wasn't too challenging and the questions weren't completely culturally irrelevant, and then I looked at my "Cranium clay". It was pathetic - a crystallized, purple lump.

I asked around to see if anyone knew where I could get some clay and took the first suggestion that I was given, a bookstore across the street. The purchase was quick, painless, and the only choice I had to make was weather to pay 300 rubles for four colors or 100 rubles for 8 colors. I took my 8 colors of игра форма eegra forma (play dough) back to the school and proceeded to mix the red and blue together to make just the right amount, and just the right color of "Cranium clay". I was not at all surprised that it looked, felt, and smelled exactly like the Play-Doh I played with as a child - that's what play dough is after all. I had not anticipated the reaction of Russian teachers and students, who are around my age, when they saw, felt, and smelled this clay.

When I brought the game into the classroom, there was curiosity about the tub of clay, but no one opened it to see what it was. I put my students in teams, set up the board, and then gave them a quick rundown of the instructions. A couple rounds went by, and then someone got a "Sculptorades" card - the card that is like pictionary, but you have to sculpt with Cranium clay instead of draw. One student began reading the instructions out loud to the other team, and when they got to the word sculpt, they all lit up. Now they understood what the little tub of stuff was. My student looked at the word, took the clay out of the tub, and started sculpting. She seemed a bit confused and delighted by the texture of the clay, and after her partner guessed the word, all the students wanted to touch the clay because it was strange, new, different. So, I asked the obvious question:

"You didn't play with play dough or clay as a child?"

"We did, but it wasn't like this. It was Soviet clay."

"Soviet clay? What do you mean? What was it like?"

"It was hard and colored your hands." (It was what I call modelling clay.)

"And it didn't smell nice like this."

"Yeah, this smells like cookies."

"Well, you better not eat it. I don't think it would taste like a cookie!"

My students were almost more interested in the exotic play dough than in playing Cranium. After class, I thought maybe just these students hadn't yet been exposed to play dough, but each time someone saw me playing with the play dough in the teacher's room, the reaction was the same.

"What is that?"

"Is it food?" (perhaps because I was chewing gum)

Because the question was asked so often, it got to the point where I simply handed over a piece of the play dough as a response. Each time, the reaction was the same. Pure delight! A smile and a curious sniff - some would then hand it back, while others would play with it for a while. Most commented on how wonderful it smelled and said it reminded them of something - for me that something was Play-Doh - for them, usually vanilla (even without the suggestion from others).

Often "new" and "foreign" things are made in Russia, like this play dough, so sometimes I can't tell the difference between what is a given worldwide product and what is new and foreign. I discovered that even if something exists in a country, is easily accessible, and looks like it was made by Russians for Russians, it doesn't mean that all Russians have seen it or played with it.

My teens weren't nearly as impressed with it, so play dough worked it's way into childhood culture at least ten years ago.

The scowl and the smile: Two different perspectives on life as seen through the wrinkles of old women in Moscow.

After living in Moscow for a year and a half, I have noticed a general divide in the older generations.

There’s the бабушка (babushka) that everyone knows, the pushy, grumpy woman who is always yelling at one person or another about how their ignorance or inconsiderate actions are torturing her. She complains of how she doesn’t know if her heart can take much more of whatever minute thing has occurred. Every little thing drives her crazy and deepens the lines in her permanent frown. The world revolves around her and everyone is expected to bow down, clear the way or politely squeeze their way past her, if she is taking up the whole hall while spreading her gossip about this person or that. The lines in her face cause everyone to further entrench her in her stereotype. She has become bitter over years of not being treated with “respect” and seems to think all younger people are idiots. Unfortunately, this old woman is the more obvious one in Russia. She is the stereotype of бабушка – the one that everyone knows.

Fortunately, this grumpy old woman isn’t the only option. There’s another way of looking at the world, which is friendly and easy going. This бабушка laughs at her insane counterpart and with a smirk or laugh brushes off things that would send the other woman into a full on tizzy-fit. She smiles at couples groping each other and making-out on the metro and doesn’t mind waiting for the next train if the one she wants is full – just steps back and smiles. When she gets into a wagon, she does not feel entitled to a seat – even though the announcement says she is, but people usually get up for her anyway because she wears a permanent smile. She appreciates others’ happiness and is the woman to ask for directions when lost because she has time and enjoys life. The lines in her face show years of laughter and jokes, and she inspires others to become more friendly. If someone assists her, she may reward that person with an interesting or funny anecdote, and the gleam in her eye will cause people to look around for the humor she finds in the world. Of course, her friendly demeanor shouldn’t be mistaken for weakness. She is not weak and can push and take care of herself, but usually she chooses to go with the flow of people.

Both types of women are strong and shouldn’t be messed with. Remember that they have lived through ups and downs, certainty and uncertainty. They have probably suffered the loss of a loved one due to alcoholism and learned that there’s no sure way to guarantee health, security or money. The two perspectives boil down to one that regrets all she has lost and the other which appreciates all that she has.