Second Impressions, In Which Teachers Go To Boot Camp

EPIK group at  farm village

Not an update related to women or privilege or travel as promised - Korea has overwhelmed me. This is a late mid- orientation update, as I've already started life in my new town. More to come.

Program Orientation

More like mental boot camp. Most people, at least from the States, arrived the night of Monday the 20th, were met at Incheon airport by EPIK staff, then promptly bussed to the Daejeon orientation site, some kind of training center for KT (not quite sure what that is, still. Phones?) We couldn't eat or drink anything until late the next morning, as we had the medical check-up first thing upon getting up. Everyone passed, which is apparently rare. Yay for not getting deported!

 

The morning walk to orientation classes

EPIK Dormitory, Daejon KT Campus

Our class schedule was basically 9 - 9 each for nearly a week straight and the curfew was 10:30, limiting the party time. One day, we went to the Chansaem Farm Village, an hour drive from Daejeon.

Tofu grinder at farm village

Not a real farm. Not a real village. Usually a place for Korean city kids to come see a piece of "rural" Korea, in about 500 such businesses around the country, according to an EPIK staff member. Why did I expect something different? (I suppose Peliti serves a similar purpose sometimes and Paranesti the town can be very money-minded, but at least they try to be a part of the community.) Oh, well, EPIK teachers still got our kicks.

EPIK vs. TAPIF

Drying dyed scarves, farm village

School hasn't started yet, but as far as I can tell, the public school English Program in Korea goes above and beyond the Teaching Assistant Program in France, in terms of quality teacher preparation, support and work experience. This orientation could never happen with the French program because there simply wouldn't be enough veteran teachers to teach classes and advice us on the road ahead. No one stays as a native teacher in the public schools for more than two years. So, I gave up a lot by turning down the renewal in France, but I certainly didn't give up anything like a fixed yet relaxed 8:30-4:30 schedule, a top-notch week-long orientation and a comfortable salary with free housing. This job won't kill me, but it will certainly whip me into shape. Native English teachers are still at the bottom of this rigid educational ladder, but at least Korea appears to give a damn. Renewing contracts get higher priority and there is no limit. Plus, with a bachelor's degree and  three years of experience, you get access to university positions. 

"Blood" dye for scarves

None of this scrambling for an ever-elusive position as a lecteur/lectrice, with a potentially killer workload. I'm not purposely hating on the French system, but this comparison really strikes me. Of course, the cushiness of the job could easily be overshadowed by my lack of Korean language and culture understanding, making life more difficult, but that's another part of the story.

Language 
I don't speak Korean. And most people either can't or are too scared to speak English. That's the biggest difference between here and France or the States, the biggest barrier to getting to know people. Sign language, inferring and asking an infinite amount of questions of Koreans who can translate become a necessity. Many teachers, even after several years of living here, can barely scratch the language surface. That's not meant to be a putdown, even coming from myself, who tends to absorb new languages like a sponge. This isn't French or Spanish or even Greek. This is a scientific, phonetic alphabet, an entirely different tonal system and sounds that don't directly translate to European languages. But I'm committed to studying and improving, with lowered expectations.

Frying soybean pancakes at farm village

Society

Korea is the most technologically advanced, mechanized and regimented place I've ever been. Everything is by the book and done in the most efficient way possible, it's kind of frightening. Modern life is at full force, with cities looking pretty much like the West, only with colorful Hangeul characters. On the plane, I watched the movie Punch, which touched on the education system but more importantly, migrants' issues. I have yet to encounter any of this in real life. What strikes me is Koreans are extremely friendly and have a good sense of humor when introduced, but on the surface they remain reserved, perhaps mistrustful of the unknown. In general, we received a warm and hospitable welcome to the country. 

Leaving Daejeon

Socializing
Introverts usually don't have it easy. Radicals and vegetarians never do. I'm keeping pieces of myself under wraps and working to make friends. Sometimes it's successful:

Daejeon, traditional restaurant, outside KT campus

Traditional restaurant

Sometimes I just want to sit in my room, write and listen to music because there's no one I can really talk to. I knew this and did my best to accept it when leaving Houston. From now on, not only do I need to push myself to be outgoing, but also with people who probably don't share many of my values or interests. A growing experience indeed.

European Homesickness 

Ten months is a short time to stay in a place, hardly enough to put down roots or unlock many secrets. Leaving that life for eight months should be enough to put it behind you, squarely in a past chapter. Maybe for someone else. I see, hear, taste, touch and smell flashes from those ten months as though I could step out the door and live them right now. As though time and seas and land and artificial borders don't separate them from me. Mixed in are moments as far back as four years ago, most of which haven't surfaced this vividly until now, but they all seem to come together as one. I miss France. I never truly fell in love with Paris in 2008, not the way I did with Lille in 2010-2011. But I miss long solitary walks along the Canal St. Martin, all the way past Gare de Lyon to the Cinematheque and Bibliotheque at Parc de Bercy. I miss finding tiny cinemas you never knew existed, in every nook and cranny of the city. I miss boulangeries on every corner. The demonstrations at Republique. The Parc des Buttes Chaumont. 

I miss Lille. I miss the near-daily bike rides between Fives and the main part of the city. I miss our impossibly tall four-floor house, all to ourselves. I miss our magic garden, with the leaves of the two big trees telling the four-seasons story. I miss sunny market Sundays, with the whole city out and on the terraces. I miss dumpstering produce from the end of the market during the week, reducing it to liquid form, filling bottles and rambling down the streets with French buddies to give the soup away in cups to the homeless. I miss Carnaval carousing. I miss long bike rides to Bruges and Paris with some of the best people I've ever met. 

I miss travelling to Greece, Spain and Morocco - warm sea climates with warm people. I miss discovering the hilltops of Athens. I miss dancing the night away on New Year's in Vigo. I miss the Moroccan CouchSurfers and the mounds of couscous. I miss three weeks in the Rhodope Mountains, weeding in the heat, being followed by a stray dog, an old woman on our porch, fresh homecooked meals and treks through the wild woods along the river. I miss city activism in Sofia, Thessaloniki and back in Lille. 

Looking at the old pictures makes me ache. If at least a tiny part can be put into written words, if it can be permanently recorded, it will help to live today, tomorrow and for the rest of the journey.