The Iceberg

I was reading the latest in a long history of arguments over the supposed moral superiority of Korean society at The Marmot’s Hole - for the record, I’m in the “baduk and wjk are full of shit out of touch” camp - when I remembered a story told to me back in the day by a couple of my co-workers. I’ll share it with you now.

It was some time around the turn of the 21st century. Two co-workers and I lived in the same building. To avoid confusion, I’ll refer to the co-workers as “the Australian” and “the Canadian”.

The Australian had been dating a woman for about three weeks. One weekend he asked me if I’d like to go on a double date with the two of them and his girlfriend’s best friend. For reasons that now escape me I was unable to join them, so the Australian instead invited the Canadian.

It seems that the night of the double date the Canadian and the best friend hit it off quite nicely. The four of them went back to the Australian’s place for drinks and an hour or so later the best friend and the Canadian scurried off to his place.

As guys who have not reached full maturity (which in my case no longer applies, thank you very much) are prone to do, the Australian and the Canadian shared with each other what occurred in each other’s rooms that night. Suffice to say, both couples had done the deed.

Fast forward a few days. The Australian and the Canadian came over to my place for some beers. I’ll now paraphrase what they said were conversations that took place between the respective couples.

CONVERSATION ONE

The Australian’s Girlfriend (TAG) - I feel so guilty.
The Australian (TA) - Why?
TAG - Because you and I had sex, but my friend and your friend only went back to his room and talked that night.
TA - Why do you think that? Maybe she’s not being truthful with you.
TAG - Of course she is. She’s my best friend. She would never lie to me.
TA - Did you tell her that we had sex?
TAG - Of course not! She would think that I’m easy.

CONVERSATION TWO

The Canadian’s Date (TCD) - I feel so guilty.
The Canadian (TC) - Why?
TCD - Because you and I had sex, but my friend and your friend only stayed in his room and talked.
TC - Why do you think that? Maybe she’s not being truthful with you.
TCD - Of course she is. She’s my best friend. She would never lie to me.
TC - Did you tell her that we had sex?
TCD - Of course not! She would think that I’m easy.

There was a time when I used to shake my head and roll my eyes in disbelief at such stories - and there were many of a similar vein. Not because I didn’t believe the story, mind you, but because I was dumbfounded that such an environment really existed. But now I no longer care. After all, it’s not my psychosis. This issue is now the sole possession of people like baduk and wjk. And to anyone who is confronted with their sort of prattle my advice would be to nod your head, say “Uh huh,” and move on.

I just finished reading the comments for this post and they gave me the inspiration for my next Iceberg Tale.

There is a neighborhood hole-in-the-wall restaurant (식당) in Shinchon less than a block from where I used to live.  Because it was convenient and the food and service were good, I usually went there once a week.  The food I ate there was a rotation of bulgogi, kimchi jjigae*, doenjang** jjigae, and yuk kye jang - which is one of the spicier Korean soups.  I can handle pretty much anything spicy and I love yuk kye jang.

The first time I ordered it at the restaurant, the grandmother who ran the place laughed in surprise and then, smiling, told me that it would be too hot for me.  She was a nice old lady, so I just smiled back at her (ferchrissakes people, why do you get pissed off about such things?), told her that I liked yuk kye jang and I’d be okay.  “In fact,” I told her, “please make it as spicy as you can.”  I could see the doubt in her eyes, but she consented.

A few minutes later she brought out the piping hot soup.  I tried to eat a full spoonful, but it was just too damn hot.  I emptied half of it from my spoon and blew on the remaining liquid.  The grandmother cheerfully shouted from the opposite side of the small room, “It’s too spicy for you, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not.  It’s just too hot,” I said and I proceeded to gingerly consume my meal while the grandmother chuckled and (presumably) thought, “Silly foreigner.  He never should have ordered the yuk kye jang.  It’s too spicy for him.”

We went through the exact same routine the next four or five times I ordered it.  It was like we were having a mini war and I was winning.  The first battle ended with her thinking that I was nuts.  In the ensuing battles her reactions morphed from “Okay, buddy, the joke’s over, I’m genuinely concerned about you,” to finally, “Alright, damn it, you win.  I admit it.  You can eat yuk kye jang.”

A few weeks after that first visit, I walked into the restaurant, kicked off my shoes, and sat down at my usual table in front of a small television that was bolted into the wall.  “I’ll have the yuk kye jang,” I told the grandmother and - enjoying the satisfaction of victory - gave her a knowing smile.  Resigned to defeat, the grandmother simply said “yes” and went back to the kitchen to prepare it.

I was watching some Sunday variety program on television when the grandmother brought out the soup and placed it in front of me.  I nodded my thanks to her, picked up my chopsticks and, eyes barely turned away from the tv, reached into the bowl for a piece of beef.  Focused again on the program, I put the food in my mouth and chewed briefly before swallowing.  The next thing I knew, the piece of meat had “gone down the wrong pipe”.  I started coughing and choking.  I reached for some water to help force the bite down.

The grandmother, hearing the commotion, came rushing out of the kitchen.  “Are you okay?” she asked me.  Taking another drink of water and gathering myself, I replied, “Yes.  I’m alright.”  Seeing that I wasn’t going to die, the grandmother smiled and said,

“See?  I told you the yuk kye jang was too spicy for you.”

I never went back to that restaurant.***

*jjigae - the Korean word for stew (though most Korean stews are closer to soups)
**doenjang - soybean paste
***Just kidding.  Of course I went back there.

A word of advice for anyone learning (but haven’t yet mastered) a foreign language. Think twice before you try to say something clever in that language.

Not long after I arrived in Korea, I had a class that will always hold special memories for me. It was one of my favorite classes of all time. Everyday was a new adventure. There was fantastic chemistry among the students. So well did they get along, in fact, that they didn’t need me to create any sort of a mood. More often than not the class was already in full gear by the time I walked through the door.

One evening the class was more offbeat than usual. It was a Friday and the students were looking forward to having a drink together after class, and it showed. One girl in her mid-20s was acting particularly silly, making jokes every other minute that were mostly funny but sometimes not. Because I had a good rapport with this class, I decided after one of her goofier cracks to tease her. However, being the clever fella that I am (or so I think), I decided to speak to her in Korean. I looked at her and said,

“Wow! (You’re a) crazy girl!”

or, as I understood it in Korean,

“와! 미친 녀.”

Those of you who understand Korean are already either laughing or cringing, but for those of you that don’t, let me explain. The nuance of “crazy girl” as it is expressed in English is ENTIRELY DIFFERENT from its meaning in Korean. I did not know this at the moment I uttered those fateful words, but you can be sure that within five seconds after the last syllable left my mouth I was fully aware that I’d said something wrong.

The girl’s smile dropped into a frown and her face at first whitened and then turned a deep red. She started shaking and looked as if she wanted to say something, but she didn’t have the chance because the other students’ pre-”crazy girl” laughter was met by an immediate hush and then unanimously replaced by an astonished, “Oh no! You shouldn’t say that. That’s bad.”

Now, I may not be too smart, but I’m not a complete idiot. I knew I had some ’splainin’ to do. Watching tears well up in the girl’s eyes, I told her that I meant the phrase from the English perspective and not the Korean perspective - which I now plainly understood was bad. Of course she was not a psycho nut bitch from hell. She was just being silly. That’s what I meant.

One by one the other students came around and the mood slowly picked back up. The girl who was the victim of my verbal clumsiness took a little longer to forgive me, but eventually she too let it go and by the end of the class things were back to normal. We even went out for beers afterward.

But I refrained from speaking Korean the rest of the night.

Summer 2004. It was the first day of class at the hagwon* where I used to work and each new student - a mix of businesspeople, university students, and baek soo/jo** - took a turn sharing something interesting about themselves.

One girl in her early 20s, perhaps the fifth or sixth of about twelve students to speak, told everyone that she was studying Chinese in university. I asked her if she could speak Chinese. “Of course,” she replied, “I lived in China for four years.”

Master of Goofiness that I am, I felt sudden inspiration.

“I can speak Chinese too,” I said and continued on, uttering complete nonsense, “Shing shong sun hao fun me hong fu she mao wa.”

The class broke into laughter for a good thirty seconds (wow! I didn’t expect that much of a reaction) before settling down. Suddenly the woman sitting next to the university student turned to her and asked in Korean,

“So what did he say?”

*hagwon (학원) - a private institute
**baek soo (백수) & baek jo (백조) - terms used for someone who is unemployed (baek soo is for males and baek jo is for females)

Iceberg note: This is the first of a series of stories/anecdotes of some of the more interesting experiences (non-lewd category) that I have had while living in Korea. So pull up a chair and lend Uncle Iceberg your ear.

A few years back (in 2001, I believe), a Korean-American friend, his middle-aged male Korean student and I decided to go a “dan lan joo jum” (단란주점). For those of you who do not know, a dan lan joo jum is a cheaper version of a room salon. Basically, it’s a norae bang (singing/karaoke room) that serves alcohol and provides the option of (usually) sexy (usually) young women to sing and dance (and maybe do other stuff) with you. Oh yeah, and they (the dan lan joo jum) are usually operated by Korean gangsters.

We wandered about the back alleys near Gangnam Station looking for a good place to go. Honestly, I haven’t the slightest idea how to determine from the outside looking in which places are good or bad. We were approached by a bbi kki - the guy who tries to lure customers into the bar - who told us that we could have a fruit plate, six bottles of beer, a bottle of (cheap) whiskey, and three girls for 300,000 won. Knowing how these things worked, my friend and his student double- and triple-checked the price. “Nothing to worry about,” said the smallish bbi kki. He guaranteed that the price would be 300,000.

We went inside and drank the whiskey and beers but to our dismay the girls, though attractive enough, weren’t fun enough, so we decided to move on. When it was time to settle up, the bill came out to 800,000 won. Surprise, surprise. The middle-aged student took out his wallet to pay but my friend wouldn’t have it. He used to be a member of a gang in LA (so he tells me) and was not intimidated by what he considered “amateurish” Korean gangsters. Long story short, after some back and forth and a couple of staredowns, the bill was lowered to 450,000 and the middle-aged student, who wanted nothing to do with the situation, paid.

(A quick aside: During the skirmish, I received a phone call from another friend. Our conversation consisted of nothing more than his asking me my plans for the evening, but the girls - not understanding English - thought that I was requesting help. They scurried toward me, locked their arms in mine and pleaded, “오빠! 왜 그러세요? 전화를 좀 끊으세요.” (”Why are you doing this? Please hang up the phone.”). I laughed and - fending off the hostesses’ attempts to take my phone - told my friend I’d call him later.)

The tension of the dan lan joo jum episode behind us, we set off in pursuit of our next destination. My friend, who just ten minutes prior had the look of murder in his eyes, was jovial. We laughed and joked about his student (who earlier looked as if he would piss himself) and the girls. Suddenly my friend stopped and the smile on his face immediately disappeared and was replaced once again by the look of murder. “Hang on a second,” he blurted and off he went down the street.

I looked up ahead and saw the bbi kki. He wasn’t looking in our direction and therefore didn’t see my friend approaching. My friend grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him between two buildings.

“How much did you say the room would cost?” my friend asked him, holding him by the collar. The bbi kki, completely stunned by this turn of events, remained silent. My friend pushed him up against a building and asked him again, “How much did you tell us the room was?!?!”

From seemingly out of nowhere there appeared no less than six gangsters who lined up behind my friend. Oblivious to their presence, my friend tightened his grip around the bbi kki’s collar and continued his interrogation. “Oh shit,” I thought, “this is going to get ugly.” I walked up to within a couple of feet of the gangsters, preparing to do what little I could to help out my friend should they decide to jump him. But they just stood there - arms crossed and striking poses. I actually sort of admired their patience.

Finally one of them spoke up, “Hey! Why are you acting like this in front of your foreign friend? You’re making Korea look bad.”

I guess courage is contagious because, upon hearing what the gangster said, I defiantly responded, “He’s not making Korea look bad. You’re making Korea look bad.”

I didn’t quite know what to expect after that. Would they take my words as a challenge? Would they get in my face? Would they jump me and my friend? Were we about to get the shit beat out of us?

None of the above. The gangsters turned to me and, eyes widening and faces brightening, said, “와! 한구말 잘 하시네?!” (Wow! You sure speak Korean well!).

From that very moment the tension in the air completely dissipated. It was as if they had totally forgotten about my friend and the bbi kki as they all gathered around me and asked me the exact same questions that nearly every Korean who doesn’t speak English asks when they first discover I can speak their language.

“How did you learn Korean?”
“Why did you come to Korea?”
“Can you eat kimchi?”
“What do you think of Korean girls?”

And, of course, they paid me a few obligatory compliments.

We talked for a couple of minutes and then I told my friend to just leave the bbi kki be and let’s get going. I said my good-byes to the gangsters and we went on our way.