I had $57 to my name. But not in bills or in a bank account, it was the quarters, nickles, dimes and pennies in my Tootsie Roll piggy bank. And I was 28.
A series of life-learning events had taken place up to this point; I’d gotten my Masters, worked at IBM, took a buy-out packaage at 25, moved to Kansas to live with my mother, started a business, hated Kansas, moved that business to Pensacola, failed in that business, gotten fired from a part-time waitressing job, and the rent was due.
So when a sign at the local Florida university advertised a “Teach English!” opportunity in Korea, “Start tomorrow!”, I figured what could I lose?
Fortunately, I still owned a globe and found Korea on a map. My finger traced the Korean pennisula, and my mind questioned, “North or South?” I fired up the modem and had Prodigy send an email.
Within minutes, I had an offer and instructions to buy my plane ticket. I left two days later, paying the cabbie in $37 of quarters to get me to the airport.
Pusan, South Korea (now called Busan) bustled with the energy of an adolescent teen trying her hardest to fit in with the cool kids. Quickly built bridges fell weekly, new LG tvs exploded upon plugging in, and college kids eagerly wanted English skills before Y2K ruined everything.
Looking back, there are probably better ways I could have taken an international teaching job. But for the reasons above, working for a Korean company at a small Korean school, being paid in Korean money, and living in Korean housing seemed like a fun adventurous thing to do.
The flat that the school offered had a mattress, a black-and-white tv, and a spiget for cold water? Sounded perfect. Teach college kids and five-years olds conversational English although I knew no Korean? Excellent. Eat in local restrauants every day because I had no kitchen? Amazing.
Fortunately, my college students befriended me. We’d jump into the new trendy coffee houses where I learned it was cool to be seen with, gasp, an American English teacher!, and they’d teach me to read, write, and speak Korean. When I managed to squeak out “mi guk saram” everyone giggled. As if they couldn’t already tell I was an American, I had to announce it with my terrible Korean.
Eventually my pointing skills in the local family-run diner turned into words. I no longer had to fear if I was eating dog or pig, I could actually order my meals. I dug into su jae bee, the local dumpling dish that every grandmother makes or bi bim bap, Korea’s version of a slop bowl. I even learned the proper way to cook my bul go gi, which, who knew, would become a trendy dinner for American Millennials in 2026.
I mastered the bus. Well, mastered might not be the right word. I successfully managed to get from my flat to my school daily, and I even figured out how to take excursions on the weekend. This wasn’t a simple task; it required my ability to read Korean and to tell the bus driver my destination so he could correctly collect my Korean won.
Fortunately, my local bus driver and I were on a smile-to-smile basis. He’d laugh at my kam sam ni da of thank you, only to find out that I’d learn the country way to say it. When I attempted my Korean accent later in cosmopolitan Seaul, I discovered I sounded like a Southerner in New York, y’all.
Days turned to months. I eventually learned how to wire cash to my US bank, and my account started to fill again. Once a month collect calls back home soothed homesickness. Locals waved hi.
Which brings me to the day I got beat up on the Korean bus.
I really was trying to be nice.
It was the middle of February. Right around Valentine’s Day. Which in Korea, it runs a bit differently than in the US. In the mid ‘90s, Valentine’s Day was only a decade old in celebration. And women would give chocolate to the men. If he was interested, a month later in March, he’d return the gesture via a white gift.
So there was lots of googly-eye stuff going on around me that I really didn’t know or understand.
On this particular morning, I’d gotten dressed in my normal school clothes and made my way to the bus stop. Along the way, I found a purple iris lying on the ground. I assumed it had fallen out of a bouquet; a gift I figured a Valentino was giving to his beloved. After all, Valentine’s Day, right?
I picked it up.
The bus arrived. “My” bus driver greeted me with his smile, and I handed him my fare. Then I also handed him the iris, bowed the appropriate depth, and said an yo his say yo, “Good morning.”
His eyes widened. I walked past. He closed the door.
And then all hell broke loose.
The little sweet Korean grandmothers in their baggy pants started beating me. Banging on me with whatever they held in their hands. Yelling in Korean words I clearly had not learned. Poking me. Kicking me.
I put arms up to defend myself. The bus made its next stop. I exited early through the back door then walked the rest of the way to my school.
What had happened?
My students gasped. Then explained.
A purple iriscan mean either deep admiration in life or deep respect in death.
So basically I told my bus driver I had the hots for him and/or I wished him a happy farewell.
Since that day and over sixty-five countries later, I haven’t been beaten up on the bus again. I’ve done my best to learn to avoid a few gestures like no okay signs in Brazil, no thumbs-up in Greece, and no V signs in Australia.
And definitely, no purple lilies in Korea unless I’m in love.
Have you done a cultural faux pas? Do share!
Chris
P.S. If you’re enjoying my novel, Kindling, tomorrow I release chapter 8 for free. After that, you have to be a paid subscriber to read the next 47 chapters. If you want to find out if the Kindle gets back to Kelly and make 11 friends along the way, you’ll need to upgrade to paid subscriber if you haven’t already.
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I got this on the day I arrived in ... Busan! Here for a month and already used the bus. It's a different world now. Just scan on and off with your T-money card and all the times and destinations are at most bus stops. I'm on day two and only went the wrong way once. Will be wary of the aunties though ... actually women of the same age as me.
In Paraguay, you must NEVER hand anything to someone with your left hand. Fortunately, you can't complete the offence, because nobody will accept anything from your left hand.