Lost in Translation, 1

My two weeks of teaching were for ESL Camp. The camp was dwindling in numbers, so the last week I actually taught by myself, to a group of kids from about 7-16. Their English levels were completely different, so it was a bit of a challenge, and they weren't exactly motivated in any way, but overall it was a good experience.

On the first day of the last week, I had the students write me a letter about themselves. One of the oldest boys (about 16) whose English was also the worst wrote me this:

"You are tall and skin white. You are common."

I actually have no idea whether he meant that as an insult or a compliment. I'm not sure anyone really could know. But I do know, that although I have been called many insulting things, I've never felt quite so insulted as when he called me common. What does that say about me???


I don't know, do you think Koreans consider commonness positive?

My First Room

My potential apartment mate was not arriving for a couple days, so in the meantime I was being housed in one of the college dorm rooms. I'll admit that even my adventurous heart sunk a tiny bit when I walked into an extremely dirty dorm room. I don't mind thin mattresses, peeling paint/wallpaper, or holes in the wall. But in one thing at least I am my mother's daughter: Dirt is bad.

At first I didn't want to let my new towels or sheets touch anything, but the alternative, of course, was that I had to touch things, so the linens lost out. Since my body was still adjusting to the time difference (15 hrs, by the way, from CST), and since I refused to let myself rest during the day, I was ready for a full night's sleep at about 6:00 or 7:00 each evening. On this evening, that was somewhat of a relief, otherwise I may have focused a little too much on, well, uncleanliness.

On the next day, my proper sensibilities had returned, and I realized that all this little room truly needed was a good scrub. Which I could give it.

I went to a little Chinese-American store next to the school where I picked up an extremely expensive bottle of Lysol (I would have been willing to use a non-American product, but that only came in wipes, and I needed solution for serious cleansing power). I donated one of my new clean washcloths to the project. Three hours (and a good deal of Lysol) later, I had come as far as I reasonably could. And then this curious feeling of ownership stirred inside me. Now that I had cleaned it, the room was mine. And then I began to get all Woolfian about the fact that I was all alone, and I had a lock on the door, and I could think and read and write anything without having to be disturbed. I began to smile fondly upon the wildly-leaking shower, the broken toilet seat, and the plastic picnic table. I may have still frowned at the spots I could not scrub away, but I was grinning at the wonderfulness of it all: I have a room of my own.

The Snore

On Saturday night, I woke up vividly and immediately at 12:40. Someone was snoring. Not a grunt-like snore, one of those slightly louder-than-heavy-breathing snores; the intake of air, the pause, and the spiral of released air. My first thought was that Cathy had arrived, and they had put her in my room by mistake. But no, she wasn’t even supposed to come for another hour or so, although I jumped up and checked the other beds. Of course, I realized, I have the only key and I locked the door (which I ran to check), so no one could get in. I must have just dreamed it. So I lay back in bed, and listened to the other ambient noises. Cars driving by, birds chirping, the steady whirr of the fan . . . there it was again. Breathing in, breathing out. Was it outside the window? Why was it so loud? Was it my fan? But my fan had its uninterrupted buzz (I’m sorry, I already used whirr, and I don’t think any other words describe fan action). And why was the sound so creepily human?

So I turned my fan off. The sound disappeared. I turned it back on, nothing, and then . . . there it was.

I HAVE A SNORING FAN.

Chinese Hospitality

I slept for a good portion of that first day, and had gone to bed for the night at about 6:20 pm. Imagine my shock, then, when twenty minutes later, when I was already in the midst of a relatively deep sleep, someone came in and woke me up. Obviously my reflexes are non-existent when I sleep or I should have been concerned about the fact that someone was coming into my locked room (which I erroneously assumed I had the only key for), but I just sort of bewilderedly answered questions until finally realizing that Lucy, the lady who moved me in, was concerned that I had not eaten dinner and was taking me to dinner. She took me to Subway, because she wanted me to eat something I would recognize, and bought me an ice-cream-like product* for dessert. She told me that in China, where she is from, they believe that if your stomach is full you have no room to be homesick.

I was touched.

And I didn’t feel homesick.



*In my experience, Asian cultures struggle a bit with the whole dairy product thing. But it was still good. Just not exactly ice cream. Or custard. Or frozen yogurt.

A Bad Beginning

It was, truly. I have always tried to preserve the romantic ideal of traveling abroad, but if one were to judge a beginning, one must judge that mine was bad.

The plane flights were lovely. Really. The only one that was a bit crowded was the small plane from Milwaukee to Houston. Although my time in the airport was barely enough to get me to the gate for last call to Tokyo, it was still unrushed. My Tokyo flight was the long one (14 hours), and the seats on the 777 Boeing (or is it Boeing 777?) were spacious, with plenty of leg room. Best of all, I had an aisle seat with no one next to me. Over by the window was a girl stopping in Japan who did her best to curl into a ball for the entire 14 hours when she wasn’t playing Bookworm on the entertainment system. Ah yes, this entertainment system was much better than I imagined. On my flight to China several years back, we didn’t even have our own screens, and 3 movies played, Big Momma’s House 2, King Kong, and Glory Road. This entertainment system had TV show episodes (The Tudors, Castle, The Mentalist, 30 Rock, The Office, Project Runway, Jamie Oliver, etc.), gaming (which I’ll admit I did not investigate closely), music, and over  150 movies. Not just tiresome new releases like The Bounty Hunter (which I did see someone watching), but also Classics like To Kill a Mockingbird, Adam’s Rib, La Dolce Vita, and World Cinema like La Vie En Rose, Babel, and a staggering amount of unimpressive Japanese and Chinese cinema. I watched one of those, Look for a Star, a story of a billionaire who falls in love with a dancer, hiding his true identity as a Very Rich Man, until midway in the story. When she finds out, there’s this whole King Cophetua and Beggar Maid thing which possibly could have been resolved had it not been for the real screw in the works . . . his company wants her to sign a pre-nup.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course. It’s just my shareholders.”

There were two romantic subplots with billionaire’s chauffeur and his chief CEO person. The chauffeur’s story was a tiny bit boring, as he struggled with whether or not he could accept this lovely woman he meets on a blind date who has a daughter.

The CEO, a woman who obviously is too stressed by the demands of her challenging, high-profile job, obviously needs that man who will see past her Wicked Witch (her nickname) exterior and care for those strangling insecurities under the surface. In her case, the perfect man is the substitute electrician/handyman who drills and pounds at inconvenient times outside the hallway, and then protects her from a cold by giving her bare feet a towel to stand on. He also gives her tea from his village, and paints a talisman of their love, while struggling with his own securities about their different socioeconomic positions.

I have gone on too long. To conclude: All three subplots resolved at a reality show (game?) called something like Trust in Love, or Take a Chance, or something like that.

And then, I believe, there was dancing.

Look for a Star was not the only film I watched, but I’m afraid it may have been the most memorable, more so than the 3-hour Italian masterpiece by a director who sings music I do not hear.

My flight to Guam does not bear mentioning; although when I got to Guam, myself and a scattered few had to wait outside for the gates for almost 3 hours because after a certain time they just close the whole gate thing down, opening up after midnight. I had never heard of such a thing, but I think most people aren’t really interested in manning Gucci stores in the airport with almost no customers. Our flight left at 2:30, and I was set to arrive in Saipan at 3:30, after almost 30 hours of traveling.

Well, I did arrive, and so did my luggage, safe and sound. And then I waited on the curb for 45 minutes, while no one picked me up. And then I went inside and tried calling everyone I could think of, on the world’s most expensive pay phone. Seriously. $100 later, I still had not connected with anyone on the island, and so I sat in the airport for the next 3 hours or so, too tired to even think straight. I really had not slept much on the trip, about 5 hours split into 45 minute segments. I really was not in a convenient frame of mind, I’ll admit. One does try to have a good attitude, but after no sleep, little edible food, and way too many hours since a shower, it’s a little bit difficult. Anyway, the plan I settled upon was to wait until daylight and take a taxi to the school when I could be sure someone would be around. Even in my sleep-deprived state I could tell this was a good plan, although 4:00-in-the-morning-despair required a few desperate tears shed, much to the consternation of the man running the little convenience store inside the airport. (Never say I don’t tell all).

It was a mistake, of course; someone forgot to let someone know who was supposed to let someone else know that that was the day I was coming in. And there’s no way I could count the number of apologies I have since received for those couple hours. Also, it led me to me getting a nicer place to stay in for the first day. And the world’s happiest no-hot-water shower. So I can still consider traveling idyllic, right?

My New Life

For those of you that don't know:
I have just moved to Saipan to become an ESL teacher.

For those of you that don't know (and don't be ashamed because no one ever does):
Saipan is a commonwealth of the United States. It's part of the Northern Marianas Trench, and is closest to Guam, then the Philippines, then, I think, Japan. The official language is English, but most of the people that live on the island are not native English speakers. The island has a multicultural demographic; the natives are Carolinian or Chamorro, and then Chinese, Japanese, and Russian immigrants make up the other large parts, with a smattering of Taiwanese and Korean.

For those of you that don't know:
I had been looking for an opportunity to teach overseas, but nothing seemed to be working out until this opportunity arose. Although I technically am still in America, I definitely overseas, and so excited about the next year of my life.