I am a good southern boy from New Orleans who had never been outside of my hometown for more than two weeks. Everything I ever knew or wanted was in New Orleans, so I knew Korea was going to be different, very different I mean different with a capital "diff," but nothing could have prepared me for how different it actually is.
It all began in the cavernous KAL gate at Los Angeles International. The air was thick with sweat and damp respiration; it was still and rank. Seven years of dirt and trash, the remnants of continuous human habitation, were ground into the linoleum, and slowly into my soul. People were sleeping, eating, and fornicating in the waiting area, we had become a small community. Louisiana had towns with fewer citizens than were in the gate. New Orleans had housing projects with more people, but that�s beside the point.
Thinking the flight was leaving on time, I pushed my way through crowds, assaulting metal detectors and security personnel alike following a mind boggling torturous route to get here only to wait for an interminable amount of time. My memory of the exact amount of time fails, but it was nothing short of a week, I am sure. As soon as the pain of starvation became too great, some weak minded soul would give in and begin to eat the sick and infirm. It always happened in these isolated societies like we were becoming. As the pressure mounted, a kind of herd mentality began to take hold. Any sudden surprise could spook us into a deadly stampede; even the seasoned travelers were frightened. I stood guarding my meager baggage with my life, eyeing my fellow travelers mistrustfully, and wondering who would begin the cannibalism if we did not board the plane soon.
The sights and sounds around me had changed. The scents, the rhythms had been altered to some different paradigm than I had ever been accustomed. There were bugs flying through the room never seen before in the Western Hemisphere. I was in another country and I had not left the States, yet.
On the plane, the changes continued to come at me, fast and furious. In spite of my congenital birth defect rendering me to be unspeakably ugly, my seatmate, a young impressionable Korean lass of 22 years, proclaimed me to be a handsome man. It was the first time anyone, including my mother and grandmothers, had ever said that to me. And here I was next to a genuine, certified Asian babe, and I was a handsome man. My head swam with the praise, and my ego swelled to never heard of proportions. Luckily, it would not be the last time I heard those words.
Stepping off of the plane, that humid July morning one-year ago, was like stepping back into New Orleans, weather-wise, that is. It was a deceptive thing, this calm air, heavy with moisture, in fact, the whole "Land of the Morning Calm" thing was as deceptive to us whitey white meats as Greenland was to the Scandinavians of Leaf Ericson�s time, as far as I was concerned. As I contemplate my fate, my three-month extension of my contract coming to a close, I am fearful of my return to New Orleans. My stay in Korea has dulled my senses. No longer do I fear the immanent mugging, drive by shooting, or senseless beating by a gang of misbegotten youths as Korea is largely crime free by my standards. No longer do I have any sense of feminism my every need provided for by my director�s wife whose only name is samonim. No one knows her real name, even the wonjongnim, as he only calls her by his eldest son�s name, some strange Korean custom that I can barely comprehend, but that�s another story altogether. I can not make a cup of instant coffee, a bowl of instant ramyon, or photocopy a single page without her jumping in to complete the task. I am sure that I will be castrated by a rabid pack of feminists in LAX as soon as I step off of the plane � some genetically engineered trait, I�m sure. I shudder at the thought of the horrible fate that awaits me in the states.