Damnyang!

It was a sad day this past weekend. The streak came to an end. December 1st 2007 can be etched into the annals of time along with that iconic September 20th evening in 1998 when a veteran Cal Ripken Jr. didn’t take the field for the Baltimore Orioles as he had 2632 times before that. Ripken’s feat although impressive, isn’t as significant or monumental as the one that just slipped through my fingers. On a cool, yet tender, December evening in Seoul, I decided to dine at the Outback Steakhouse, thus putting an end to my 97 consecutive days of eating rice. It was indeed a sad day for all those who had been rooting and supporting me from day the first. To begin, I would like to thank the Infinite Spirit for giving me the opportunity to be able to consume such copious amounts of this starchy grain. Of course, none of this would be possible without the hard work and dedication of those industrious Korean farmers and the various people in this country who have found countless ways to paste, liquify, metamorphize and inject rice into various foods. You never know when or where it rears it's starchy self. I just want everyone to know that I did it for, you, the fans. You, and my alarm clock, are the reason I get up in the morning, so without either of you I couldn’t have done this. Thank you and God bless.


Before coming over to Korea I was a little apprehensive and worried that simple tasks like buying a loaf of bread or a dozen eggs might be a difficult endeavour. Although I’ve travelled before, the transition between Canada and England is relatively seamless. Besides my trip to Newfoundland I’ve always been able to understand and communicate with the people living in the places I’ve visited. Things like bread and eggs are very easy to obtain in Korea. You locate the item in one of the thousands of grocery stores and keep handing the cashier money until they stop speaking and start reaching into the till to present you with change. But the one perfunctory practice that has proven difficult is the haircut. This weekend I walked into a barber shop for a much needed trim. After playing some charades and a bit of pictionary, I was certain that my hair-chopping friend had the cut of my jib. The barber began to meticulously use his scissors. I heard the familiar and mechanical “snip” “snip” noise and assumed all was going well.


There is an important aside to this story; as a glasses wearer it is impossible to see the haircut in real time. Once the spectacles are removed the fate of the cutee (not to be confused with cutie) is in the hands of the cutter. After about 25 minutes had elapsed I put my glasses on to find that my desired haircut was far from a reality. I tried my best to explain that I no longer wanted an Alfalfa patch at the back of my head. I tried to think about the clearest way to say, "Think Matt Damon." Again, I removed my optical lenses and 10 miutes later found out that my stylist wasn’t understanding me (although he kept trying to clarifying by speaking in perfect and detailed Korean).


A karaoke machine that was synchronized to this water launching contraption. After careful deliberation we decided to wow our Korean audience with a euphonic rendition of Sweet Caroline. Note the multiple rat tails crawling down my neck. Visual proof it was time for a haircut.

At this point I was forced to change my approach, so I pointed to the razor, the # 4 hair guard and mimicked the noise of the machine. 3 minutes later and I was happy that the two of us finally understood each other. The only problem is I now have a buzzed head, which has instigated comments like, “Teacher, your hair looks like a Korean grandfather’s” and “Teacher, your hair is very not good,” from my students (which is very astute of them). As I mentioned before this barber is a scrupulous fellow and he seemed a little offended that after he painstaking clipped and groomed the individual hairs on my head I instructed him to destroy his masterpiece. I felt bad and did my best to show it, for it was like getting Leonardo Da Vinci to brush you the magnum opus of paintings and all you really wanted was an empty canvas.


Two weekends ago, Kelly, Dana and I, travelled to the town of Danyang and took in some of the local sights. Danyang is surrounded by many tourist attractions and places of natural beauty, so much so, that I propose that the town considers renaming itself to DAMNyang! The main purpose for our travels was to visit Guinsa temple. This place is a utopian haven nestled in foot of a steep and rugged valley. Guinsa is the isolated headquarters of the Cheontae sect of Korean Buddhism and a marvel to my eyes. We watched a group of devote followers assiduously make kimchi as if they were working a factory line (yet they seemed to be enjoying themselves). This sanctuary also has a dinning hall fit for 10,000 and serves three vegan meals to anyone in the neighbourhood daily. The only stipulation is you that you must eat every last grain of rice and every last drop of soup. Waste not, want not.


As the antithesis to that last thought, our school just had a new American teacher arrive to our school. He’s a fun guy to hang out with and has insisted on calling me Woody; so yet another arrow to add to the nickname quiver that is my last name.


Hot and impassioned,

Woody