Seoul Survivor

OK, maybe that's premature. It's only 8:10 a.m. and I don't leave Seoul until 3:45 p.m., but I've made it here. That's something.

Met some people on the ATL-ICN flight and we had breakfast in Seoul as soon as everything opened. Actually, they ate. I figure since I'm here for hours more I'll wait just a bit.

Had some really bumpiness in the flight but it landed OK, which is the important part. It was one heck of a long flight. Since I only got my ticket about 10 days ago, I had a middle seat and waited until someone on the side was awake to try to get out for a stretch/pee break. I could hardly stand up. My back hurt so bad it was insane. And my right shoulder still hurts, too, and I'd had issues trying to take off my long-sleeved shirt. I just can't lift it up.

I've officially caught up on my movies, though. Korean Air has those individual screens where you can choose your movies. I started with "The King's Speech," then, falling asleep, I put in "True Grit." I didn't see much of it because I was dead tired, which was OK. After that, I moved to "The Fighter" and I swear if there's a better looking actor than Christian Bale I haven't seen him. Both those Oscars were well-deserved.

After a "meh' "The Tourist," I put in "True Grit" a second time but got involved talking to my seatmate and didn't get too far. If I have movie options for my second flight -- 6-7 hours long -- I'll either do that or "The Black Swan," which was also on the list. I'm pretty much doing some Oscar-winning viewing today.

I had planned on meeting Amy in Seoul, but she's working so that fell through. Instead, I'm just going to wander the halls of this airport, possibly grab a bite to eat and play some Set before I head off again.

I ventured outside briefly, because I mailed Amy the candy I'd brought her. It wan an excursion since it involved going through immigration, which I'd already bypassed since I really was only a transfer passenger. Going through immigration late meant taking, per orders of the lady at the information booth, a 'staff-only' elevator down to just past immigration, which I felt was wrong and still do.

Boy, the looks on the people when I went down and popped out. Nothing bad -- had I been a dark-skinned person in the U.S. I'd probably still be in questioning.

Got a stamp in my passport for a total of 15 minutes at the passport. I figured I'd go get some fresh air and eat my breakfast muffin outside, so I did.

All I know about Seoul is the weather today is nice.

Half a world away. Almost literally

OK, so I have begun my journey to my new job. I’m trying to work up enthusiasm for it, but it’s not happening yet.

It’s still not real to me. I’d been hesitant to voice any particulars about the situation because I’ve gotten to this point previously and it’s fallen through.

But here I sit in the Tallahassee airport waiting on my (delayed) flight to start my trip, so here are the details:

I’ve accepted a job at The Jakarta Globe, an English-language newspaper in Indonesia. This is the same place I thought I had solidified a job last year. That went by the wayside but it’s popped up again.

Quite honestly, and I thought about this earlier today, I have no idea what my job description is. I think I’m a copy editor.

All I really know is I’ve agreed to a six-month contract with an automatic renewal for another six months. So unless they hate me, I hate it or I something else pops up, it’s a year.

My dog is devastated. My parents aren’t happy, but it IS a job, and it’s in my field.

Sadly, as bad as the pay is by US standards, it’s par for what I’ve seen in Tallahassee.

Half the circumference of the earth at the equator is 12450 miles.

The distance from Tallahassee to Jakarta is 10628 miles.

I hope this is the right thing to do. I just feel I had no choice. I’ve been looking and nothing has popped up, let alone anything related to communication. I’m taking the positives and as I told someone, even though I am not sure what my job description is, I’m going to be the best one of them there is.

It’s Saturday, about 4:30 p.m. Due to time changes I can’t fathom right now, I arrive Monday evening around 9 p.m. I had a plan to layover to Seoul but that fell through, so I’ll likely take a nap in the airport.

I don’t know about Internet access until I get there, so I’ll see you on the other side.

Almost literally.

Sleep tight. Big changes are coming.

Well, spring break is over and my dog is thrilled.

Actually, she’s a nuisance today. She went with me to drop off Zippy to carpool down to the Villages with CaroLynn and when we went to the meeting place and I snapped on her leash, she lunged at CL, snarling. Bad girl.

Then, later today when I was assisting the repair of a flat tire, I had my girl outside with me, which was dumb on my part. The blonde is unpredictable, and I looked up to see her down on the end of the property by the road. I yelled at her and finished what I was doing. Then I went down to get her, and she’d run off.

I looked all around and finally saw her – ACROSS the highway in the Harrell’s yard. I wound up picking her up and carrying her back. I wanted to smack the crap out of her, but I don’t think her little pound dog brain had any comprehension beyond “Bad girl!”

Which is different than the nephews, whom I am happy to report are safely back in Orlando. Zippy and I dropped them off Saturday and man, Kocur and I sure slept good that night.

Saturday … what a treat. I walked in the Springtime Tallahassee parade with 19 other RPCVs (and four future ones: two who are leaving this summer and the almost 1-year-old twins of a couple who served and met in Guatemala.). I hadn’t been in the parade since my high school band days and I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen it.

I got to carry the flag of Morocco. Apparently, the state library here has flags of many countries and you can just go check them out. Who knew?

My nephews didn’t care to march with me, but eventually they met me at the park, but by the time they found me they were in pretty foul moods, so we headed out.

On the way out, Zac almost got killed because he ran across the road without a moment’s hesitation, let alone looking. Fortunately the oncoming car saw him and the person mostly in danger was Zippy, who almost had a coronary. It absolutely, totally scared her, and I think her being so scared frightened Zac.

After she started breathing again, we stopped by their favorite spot, Chick-Fil-A to kill time on the way out. They enjoy the play area, even though Nic is pretty much on the bubble as far as being too tall. Parents, grandparents and aunts enjoy the fact the play area is pretty much soundproof. You can’t hear anything that comes from that room, which is usually fabulous.

And sometimes it’s not. Zac and Nic were playing and laughing along with some other littler kid and I went to refill my tea. I came back, sat down and looked in only to see Zac bawling. From my angle, he was holding his nose and noiselessly sobbing his little heart out.

I ran in and asked what happened. Nic, he said, had taken his face and shoved it into that rubbery net thingie that keeps kids from crashing from the upper levels. I couldn’t believe it because it seemed a bit violent – something a person would do in anger instead of playtime. I mean, they had been laughing and playing and all of a sudden the mood changed.

Nic ran by and I stopped him, asking if he’d done what Zac said he did. He said yes, and had no apparent regret about it. He was done playing, as was Zac (I’d previously given them five more minutes, and time was up anyway. And Zac was still crying.)

I just don’t understand this kiddo’s brain. He’s the same guy who advised my mom to lie to someone about something, and when she protested and said that wasn’t good to do, he replied breezily with, “It’s easy.”

At Chick, I asked him why he’d done it and he had no answer. You can’t reason with an 8-year-old, but I told him I really wanted him to tell me because I just couldn’t understand it.

Man. There was some other stuff that made me worry, too.

It’s not like the spear. That was his fault, for sure, but it was carelessness. He’s done similar stuff of Zac before, and when you get a reply about why the answer is along the lines of Johnny Cash: “I wanted to see him cry” or “To see if I could hurt him.”

My speared leg, incidentally, now has a bull’s eye on it. It’s a dark purple circle with a faded green smaller circle inside. In the dead center, there is a black scab. It looks like a target, but I am hoping with both boys back in school that people will refrain from throwing pointed objects at it.

It looks like the boys will be at Camp Papa for a stretch this summer, too, but I won’t be around to play Favorite Aunt. I’ve taken a copy editing position at a newspaper and will be leaving Saturday.

It’s a good thing, but I’m not completely overjoyed: I’d hoped to never work in journalism again and it’s quite a ways away. But it’s a good job in my field, and inchallah it will give me something my resume lacks: new media experience.

When I left in 2006, what they mean by “new media” didn’t exist, so I’m coming up short on other “communications specialist” positions, even though I could figure it out. So hopefully I’ll be able to get back into the game.

This has been in the works for a little while, but I’ve been so burned on jobs I’ve been scared to mention it. Even now, with a start date of next week I am still hesitant to voice too many details.

It’s not quite real to me yet and I’m still continuing to act as if I am not leaving because I’m spooked something will happen at the last minute. I’d just started going to Thomasville Road Baptist Church and finally joined the singles Sunday School. Last Sunday was my third week, which means I’m officially a “member” of the class.

In my “continue as if the job will fall through” phase, it didn’t occur to me my first week as a member would also turn out to be my last at the church.

My poor dog

Woe is Cocky [sic]!

It’s Orlando Public Schools’ spring break, which means we have my nephews.

They adore Kocur, or “Coaster,” as they tend to call her. Zac walks her with me and will just pet her and pet her. Nic likes to play with her tail, but he doesn’t abuse her. They both really do love her.

However, she doesn’t return the emotion. She tolerates it, and for a dog who’s been known to be a bit … um … unpredictable, she is extremely patient with my monster nephews.

She’ll look at me as they pet her, her eyes pleading. When Zac has her on the leash when we walk, she keeps glancing back to me, as if to say, “Just checking to make sure you’re not leaving me with him.”

Nic wanted me to take their picture together, and when I squatted down with the camera to focus it, she jumped out of their grasp and into my arms.

They tease her endlessly. A game of fetch becomes keep away, and Zac, especially, likes to fake her out by pretending to throw the ball. He’s constantly amused by the act; she is sadly, not bright enough to catch on and runs after the phantom ball, which amuses him more.

Their SB revolves around my poor little girl, from the walk when we wake up to them begging me to “make” her sleep with them at night.

Poor Kokey, or as it’s spelled this week, “Cocky.”

They’re distracted here and there, such as when we’ve been doing yard work. Nic in particular is a great little helper, gathering sticks and offering to operate the chainsaw. (If you think for a second that I contemplated the latter, you are dumber than my dog.)

Zac mostly looks for an opening with Kocur, and is slightly irritated that she opts for me, every time. Even if he has food. The boy loves my dog.

Kocur/Coaster/Koky/Cocky mostly got a day of relief today, since the four of us went out to see my little sister’s new digs, Natural Bridge Trails and Arena. She’s taking over as property manager and we checked out the property.

Unfortunately, it rained pretty hard so we couldn’t explore on horseback or 4x4, but it’s a nice place. Wendy and Sean need to move into the house.

Now, we’re back in Havana and Kocur’s being entertained yet again. Nic filled up her food toy, so her tolerance has paid off.

I’ve been cutting down trees, too. Nic’s been assisting with the scissor things (a technical term) but mostly playing with other violent things, such as the spear that Papa made him.

There are two of them and the boys have spear-throwing contests, although today Nic was solo.

Chief Osceola he’s not, but I Fear the Spear. Nic hasn’t quite mastered the whole “throw it away from people” thing and hit me in the leg. Fortunately, he has a bad aim so it didn’t puncture but it did bleed. Yikes.

Two and a half days left. I hope Kocur and myself can make it.

When things that seem familiar aren’t

It’s weird being in Florida after such a long absence. I mean, the last time I lived here was 1996. Everything is familiar, yet many things have changed.

Tallahassee has things that didn’t exist when I left, like half of Blair Stone Road, the Brogan museum and SouthWood in its entirety. I took a wrong turn on campus and got hopelessly lost – when did they redo FSU?

It’s mostly familiar, though. When someone tells me the place I need to go is “off Riggins Road,” I have to close my eyes and ponder it before figuring it out.

It gets complicated sometimes, like when there are street names I remember from Michigan. I hear “Jefferson” and I think “how far from the fist?” and then realize that’s the wrong state. I no longer connect “Woodward” with campus but Foxtown and the Dream Cruise.

I think I know something, then it turns out I know it from another time and place.

That’s happening with people, too. I haven’t haunted around Tally in a long time, but I keep seeing people who look familiar. As it turns out, I look familiar to some people, too. At an event at Cush’s a few weekends ago, this woman selling tickets at a raffle swore she knew me. Instead of saying, “That’s impossible. You couldn’t have been 12 when I left the state,” (which was probably true) I played along.

“Oh, I’ve played softball forever,” (fat chance, since my last 10 or so seasons in Southfield, Michigan, of course).

“Maybe you’ve seen me at church,” (my former Tallahassee church hasn’t existed for at least a decade.)

Basically, it’s just a façade. People try to make me look like I belong here, and I just don’t. I’ve been back a year, but gone so long it’ll take much longer to return as a local. I play along, but something’s just off in that department.

Occasionally, I think I spot a familiar face and I get enthused, ready to rekindle a friendship. Then I get closer, I realize the person merely reminds me of someone from somewhere else, like the time I swore I saw Chuck Klonke and then realized I was in the wrong state for that. (Especially since Grampa doesn’t fly.)

I keep seeing people who remind me of Moroccan friends, too. I did a double-take, thinking I’d seen Amina, my program manager. When I realized it was impossible, it made me sad.

It’s not likely I’ll ever get back to those places, and my chances for seeing these folks in the flesh is gone. It’s not nostalgic; it’s just weird.

On the way home from Cush’s, I had a similar encounter. With Mackenzie in the car, my mom and I headed back to Havana on 27.

Just past the cemetery, I started wondering if Mackenzie had ever seen the house where her father grew up. I asked and she said no, so I hung a right at the light at Faulk (which wasn’t there when I grew up) and drove down the hill to 2139.

My mom had driven past it before, recently enough to see the new family had Volkswagon buses, which she found funny since my father lived and died by the fried-out Kombie as well as the 1969 Beetle.

I drove past it, noticing that there was a guy in the yard. We turned around in what used to be John Labie’s house (which had a for rent sign in front of it) and decided what the heck, we’d get out and show Mackenzie.

She, being 10, embarrassed easily and didn’t surface out of the car the whole time, which turned out to be awhile.

I climbed out first and walked to the front door, calling hi to the man I’d seen. Turns out his name was Ryan and he and his wife Bonnie had bought the place a year ago. They said it was in terrible shape (I’d heard it’s a former HUD house) and had spent the year fixing it up.

And honestly, it hasn’t looked better. Bonnie, a young mom of four (I’d be surprised if she and her husband had seen 30 yet) was sprouting plants and had fire ant-proofed the yard.

Zippy talked to her and explained that my father had built the extension and said we were trying to show a shy Mackenzie the room where her father climbed out the window in order to avoid a butt-whoppin’ sometime during his adolescence.

We got individual tours of the yard, which included FOUR VW buses (one was for sale, as was the Plymouth (?) minivan). Ryan said he crawled around in the attic and discovered some VW engine parts and knew he’d bought the right house.

It’s weird going back. Everything is vastly different, but so much the same. The boxwood hedges that bordered the property line are HUGE, and the ditch we had running through the property is now somehow county property even though the owners own both sides of it. Some weird law – they can’t even have anything on their property because it’s an official cut through.

There’s an above-ground pool and soon there will be a chicken coop. The huge stump that was outside the back door (deep in concrete) is gone, as is the overhang where we, at one time, had a swing.

Bonnie and Ryan, who had previously lived as missionaries in Senegal, gave us individual tours and we met up in the kitchen, which is completely new. Honestly, I couldn’t even envision what it used to be like because it’s totally redone.

After trying to focus, I came up with the fact the refrigerator is on a different side of the kitchen than it was. Now, the stove and sink are there. It’s just weird, but in a good way.

Going down the hall, I could see my old bedroom, the big place in the floor where my father took out the oil heater or whatever it was and put in a hardwood floor. Just as when we lived there, you could tell the new floor.

Looking around and then closing my eyes, I could visualize … nothing.

Really, not a thing. I’m not sure if I blocked it out, but I couldn’t come up with many memories of the house.

I tried to remember, like when I dropped the scissors on my foot and it bled and bled. I remember that happening in a closet (not a clue as to why) but can’t think back to the moment itself.

Not everything’s been blocked: I told Ryan about the time Bandit, the ugly terrier, for about a week kept jumping into the dryer and barking. Fool dog, we thought, at least until my father pulled the vent out and found a family of squirrels living there.

I remember there being a way to get under the house from the study (which wasn’t a real study; it was a cement room) hall going to the garage. Scary place. I remember opening that one time and finding a squirrel tail collection, courtesy of my cat Cleopatra.

It was fascinating, really, to go back to a place that’s no longer yours. It was very detaching, not at all like the song “The House that Built Me.”

From time to time, I had wondered about one thing in the house, though: what we called The Thing Panky Built.

This Thing, built by one Haskell Panky, divided the living room (I guess it would be – where the front door led to) and the dining room. It was probably 6-8 feet long and four feet tall, with pillar things from the top to the ceiling.

I have no memory of the house before TTPB, although I do remember Panky (as we called him, a friend of my grandmother) taking us for ice cream then eating it as we visited the Sparkling Water (as we called it) in Monroe, La.

Somehow, it materialized at the house at 2139 Faulk Drive and became an important reference. Things were usually found either in, on or around “The Thing That Panky Built.”

The wood was stained dark and it smelled like varnish.

It, more than anything (and for what reason I have no idea) is the one thing that I’ve wondered about at Faulk Drive.

Did the new owners appreciate it? Did they sniff it? Did stuff disappear in it? What on earth did they call it, anyway? They didn’t know Panky, or eat ice cream with him, so how did they even know what that thing was?

So, as I entered the back door, no longer obstructed by a giant tree stump and without an overhang to fear falling roaches, I curiously craned to catch a glimpse of TTPB, perhaps hoping to take another sniff.

And it’s gone. Ryan told me it wasn’t there when they bought the house. It just went away, I guess, which kind of makes me sad.

Without it there, it was even harder to try to come up with a memory of the living room or dining room, but without TTPB, it just didn’t make sense.

It’s about the same thing as those times when I run into familiar people: I get a little rush of adrenaline and hope to light a little fire in my heart somewhere.

Instead, it turns out it’s wrong somehow: not the right person, place or thing.

And it leaves me a little empty.

Trying to change the subject

I’m still unemployed. It’s getting old.

But by “unemployed” I don’t mean not working. Far from it, actually. I think I am working harder (not necessarily smarter) without a job than most people do with.

This past week, I felt like Flo from “Alice.” Remember that show?

I’ve been filling in at a little café here called The Marinated Mushroom, which is now owned by a really awesome lady and her son, who are both fabulous cooks.

They haven’t had as much luck with employees as they have recipes, and just over a week ago Lia called me in a frantic state, saying the “Betty Boop” (her description) girl she’d given multiple chances finally imploded and she needed a fill in.

Enter Flo. I’ve washed so many dishes this past eight days or so it’s scary. And kiss my grits, I think my hands have aged about a month for each day I’ve been there.

But the ownership is awesome, the food is fabulous and the clientele is really fantastic.

There have been no other job possibilities save for one interview this week. I liked the opportunity – not my field but within the realm of my skills and I involved helping people – but I haven’t head back.

So that’s the update there; I’m tired of dwelling on unemployment so I’m changing the subject.

The new subject: someone else’s former employment and former boss.

My mom retired a year ago last July. She’s only 66, and she wanted to work longer several years ago, a woman got placed above her department as the second in command. The command guy is great, from what I hear, but this woman is referred to as “The Bitch,” and not just by my mother.

But the stories I’ve heard. Man, they go on and on. The little department the woman controls (the head guy kind of hopes she’ll fade away is the picture I got) is still encumbered by rules the rest of the company doesn’t have to obey, such as not a second over 45 minutes or whatever for lunch and basically all this stuff.

Essentially, The Bitch is, as I’ve been told, full of shit.

This has only been theorized, of course, by lowly “clerks” who operate under the goddess herself, but those multiple “clerks” (the quote marks are an inside joke – TB recently introduced a staff member with a four-year degree as a “a clerk in the office.” Freaking insulting.) have substantiated the fact that she is full of shit.

Until recently, this was the only corroboration offered. Not that I disbelieve my mother or the other shall-remain-anonymous people who’ve also stated such, but hey, as a former AP person, I realize that’s a bit one-sided. You have to get independent verification.

Well.

For some reason that wasn’t explained to me, the shrinking department (at least one person has up and quit on TB because he was tired of her shit) has taken up some health offer and is working out together at some gym.

One morning, the “clerk” overheard a conversation with the personal trainer and TB. I’ve heard multiple accounts of the story, and from what it sounds like, it went something like this:

(Note: I am told the personal trainer speaks in short sentences and sort of punctuates her speech with a bobbing of her head, so try to picture that.)

The scene: at the gym. I don’t really know (or perhaps I do and just shouldn’t put out there publicly) the events that precluded this. I think it had something to do with working out and not losing justifiable weight.

PT: How many times do you go to the bathroom?

TB: Oh, I drink lots of water every day! I must go five, six times!

PT: No, I mean how many times do you GO to the bathroom? (Remember to punctuate and bob your head. It’s better that way)

TB: What? Five or six times. I drink lots of water because it’s healthy.

PT: No, no, no! I mean, how many times do you GO. Bowel movement! (Bob head)

TB: (Obviously thrown): Um, oh. … Once a week. … I think.

PT: Oh! That is why. You are full of it. (Bob, bob)

TB: (Incoherent stammering, flushed cheeks)

PT: Yes! At least three pounds backed up! (Bob, bob)

So there you have it. Independent verification that The Bitch is indeed, full of shit. With an estimate of how much.

Now, doesn't that just make you hungry? I can show you to a cafe with fantastic food.

Please tip your waitress generously. (And if you don't, kiss my grits.)

FDR and Korean War memorials in D.C.

I went to D.C. in order to attend a career seminar but stayed through the weekend in order to get a little R&R away from the job hunt.

Previously, I've visited most of the district highlights (though I haven't coughed up money to do either the Capitol or White House), so this time I took in a few of the newer memorials.

The first two photos are from the Korean War memorial, and the rest are from FDR's, which is essentially a park.



From the National Parks Service:

“Freedom is not free.” Here, one finds the expression of American gratitude to those who restored freedom to South Korea. Nineteen stainless steel sculptures stand silently under the watchful eye of a sea of faces upon a granite wall—reminders of the human cost of defending freedom. These elements all bear witness to the patriotism, devotion to duty, and courage of Korean War veterans.

From Tour of DC.org:

"Viewed from above, the memorial is a circle intersected by a triangle. Visitors approaching the memorial come first to the triangular Field of Service. Here, a group of 19 stainless-steel statues, created by World War II veteran Frank Gaylord, depicts a squad on patrol and evokes the experience of American ground troops in Korea. Strips of granite and scrubby juniper bushes suggest the rugged Korean terrain, while windblown ponchos recall the harsh weather. This symbolic patrol brings together members of the U.S. Air Force, Army, Marines, and Navy; the men portrayed are from a variety of ethnic backgrounds. "

FDR's memorial, from National Parks Service:

"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." These are the words of our 32nd President, a man who embodied the meaning of the word courage. Despite being stricken with polio at age 39 and paralyzed from the waist down, he emerged as a true leader, guiding our country through some dark times: the Great Depression and World War II. The memorial honors this man, his story, and his era. "

From Wiki:

"Considering Roosevelt's disability, the memorial's designers intended to create a memorial that would be accessible to those with various physical impairments. Among other features, the memorial includes an area with tactile reliefs with braille writing for people who are blind. However, the memorial faced serious criticism from disabled activists. Some of the braille and reliefs were placed well above the reach of even a very tall person, rendering the braille pointless because no blind person could reach high enough to read it."

The FDR memorial was pretty phenomenal. It's over seven acres and even has public bathrooms. There are four open rooms with different galleries (one for each presidential term) and you kind of wander through history. (Only I did it backwards.) I'm not sure if it was because it was winter or what, but the waterfalls in each gallery was turned off. I didn't even realize there were ponds until I saw signs saying "Throwing coins damages fountains." I just thought they were strategically placed rocks.

The memorial sits on the Tidal Basin, or something like that, and is quite a hike from L'Enfant Plaza, which is where I got off the bus. I only took one sightseeing day and walked a ton, and I am glad I'd caught the tip on sportsjournalists.com to go visit this one, as well as the Korean Memorial -- especially since my knowledge of the Korean War mostly comes from "M*A*S*H."