After a second day of island-hopping and exploring, I had been walking back in the direction of my “hotel” (that needs another blog post by itself!), planning to grab some more irresistible dim sum for dinner along the way. As so often happens when I’m in unfamiliar surroundings, however, I got momentarily distracted – this time by a somewhat disorganised-looking indoor market which was practically deserted. It consisted of a stall here and there, surrounded by piles of tat and the odd middle-aged woman arguing over the price of a bicycle tyre with an elderly, pipe-smoking man in a rocking chair, his pet caged bird on his knee. It was certainly like no market I’ve visited before, and I’ve been to a lot!

I wandered further and further inside, certain that there had to be more, as I had the unsettling feeling of being in a derelict warehouse inhabited by homeless people rather than in the market that the sign outside had promised. The hundreds of colourful stalls and bustling crowds, however, completely failed to materialise.

Rather disappointed, I was turning to go back when I caught sight of a man in a chef’s hat ducking under a low beam and hurrying out of sight. Obviously I followed him. I had to bend almost double to get in, and when I emerged on the other side, I found myself in a different world.

Gone were the dark, dank, empty garage-like spaces and piles of assorted junk. I was now in a brightly-lit, cavernous space, every square inch of which was crammed full of rickety tables and chairs, tiny kitchen islands spewing forth clouds of steam, and scruffily dressed men howling orders at the kitchen workers. It wasn’t a restaurant so much as a food court, each little kitchen unit presumably owned by a different person and serving food to those seated directly around it. It was impossible to tell where one ‘restaurant’ ended and the next one began. And, oh yes – the place was packed. This was clearly an extremely popular place to eat, despite the rather unusual entrance route.

I stood and stared in delight and bemusement at the scene before me. It was like finding a noisy and exciting Narnia filled with noodles and dumplings and stressed out men yelling in Cantonese.

There was no order or structure of any sort to the layout of the place, so I just started to walk tentatively forward, weaving in and out of the tables and dodging the people laden with bowls and plates as best I could. The air was filled with yelling and spices, like my local Chinese takeaway back home times a million. Every available surface was plastered with brightly-coloured posters displaying menus and prices, but I couldn’t understand a single word: unlike in the majority of places outside in the real world I had just left, absolutely none of them contained English or pictures.

I hesitated, feeling slightly intimidated as clearly the only foreigner there, but my empty stomach dying to try whatever it was that smelled so good. A man hit me roughly on the arm and shouted at me, which brings us to the present moment, or the start of this story.

“What you want?” asks the man, pushing me into a seat and indicating that I need to stop getting in everyone’s way. I look helplessly at him, and at the sea of confusing, meaningless characters on the posters all around me. “I don’t know!” I say nervously, and he goes off into a spiel before dragging me over to his little kitchen and pointing out various ingredients to me. I still know nothing. “Um… just let me have some of that,” I tell him despairingly, pointing at the dinner of a man at another table.

A mere blink of an eye later, my bowl of “that” is unceremoniously slammed down in front of me, and my host – who used his entire 3-word English repertoire when he greeted me – continues to chat loudly to me every time he passes my table. The “that” is extremely good, especially after I decide that the chunks of meat amongst the noodles are definitely, definitely beef, and focus on nurturing this belief and faith as I eat.

I finish, pay, and attempt to take a photo of my incredible surroundings, which earns me another shove and frantic head shaking from my host, who apparently did not notice the shots I was snapping from my corner while I ate. “Oh… no photos?” I ask apologetically. “Sorry. Thank you. Good food!”. I point and give a thumbs-up, and he flashes me a brief but genuine smile, grabbing my arm when I turn to leave. He scoops up a couple of freshly made dumplings and wraps them in a large leaf, which he presents to me with evident pride. “Good food!” he repeats carefully. Then he gives me another shove and I make a hasty exit before he regrets his gesture and takes the dumplings back.

I walk back through the insanely crowded Hong Kong streets, eating my free dumplings and smiling to myself. This is living. Someone remind me never to leave it so long to go travelling again!

The death of the hated leader of North Korea is announced, and there I am sitting at a table eating kimchi and rice with my South Korean colleagues… I felt strangely privileged. I had the opportunity to witness first-hand an emotional and historic moment of the kind you normally only read about in history textbooks or in the newspaper.

Dee first read out the news from her phone, in Korean, but I caught the relevant words and the shocked tone. Kim Jong-il is dead? I asked in English, as no one else responded to her statement. She nodded, a hint of surprise on her face, but otherwise indifferent. He was on a train. He was ill. He died. was all she said when I asked her for details. Jennifer made a comment in Korean, something along the lines of “good riddance” as far as I could tell, and someone else nodded. That was it. So much for my visions of being swept up in a joyous, cheering crowd of South Koreans dancing in the streets with fresh hope for reunification.

Where’s the champagne? asked Chris, but there were only a few half-hearted smiles in response. Dee saw our surprise at the lack of emotion, and tried to explain. When Kim Il-sung died, we celebrated, she told us. We cheered. People danced with joy. I will never forget that day… I was in elementary school, and I was certain that something big was going to happen. It was very emotional – people thought that because he was gone, we would be reunited as one Korea. Many of my family thought they would finally see their relatives and friends again. There was a lot of new hope. Everyone was excited. But then… she shrugged, looking sad, as if re-living the emotions from almost two decades ago.  …everything just went on as before. Kim Jong-il took over. Nothing changed at all. There was a lot of disappointment. No one will want to raise their hopes again this time, you see? Now I hear this news and I just think… what difference does it make? Nothing will change. 

In a way, the lack of excitement pleases me. I really strongly dislike celebrations of death, even though it seems to be acceptable to rejoice in someone’s passing if the majority of people have deemed him/her deserving of death. The braying crowds celebrating the killing of bin Laden earlier this year truly sickened me. They were like lynch mobs, or witch-hunters carrying their flaming torches and howling for blood. A human being – however disgusting, evil, and contemptible he was – had died, and celebrating the loss of any human life is (in my opinion) a bit twisted. I understand the reasons, and the emotions, but it doesn’t sit right with me, all the same. I felt as if I’d gone back to a less ‘civilised’ time, where humans were nothing but bloodthirsty animals waving around crudely-fashioned spears and communicating in grunts and howls. I was shocked and a little frightened by the comments I read and the rejoicing I saw.

So I suppose I find it admirable that the South Koreans are not taking to the streets to rejoice in the death of arguably the most insanely dangerous man on the planet. However, I also find their total lack of emotion very sad. They’ve given up hope of reunification, from what I can see. Most of them believe there’s more likely to be another devastating war than a United Korea. As those separated from their families grow older, the chance that they’ll ever see them again seems practically non-existent. There’s none of the hope that there was when Kim Il-sung died: Kim Jong-il didn’t turn out to be any better, and Kim Jong-un will be the same, if not worse.

Loss of hope is probably one of the saddest conditions there is. I hope the crazy gene skipped the young man stepping up to lead that troubled country. I hope he wants to work towards building links with South Korea and the rest of the world. I hope something will change for the better now that his father is gone.

It’s not a very strong hope, and it’s not a very likely hope, but it’s hope, nevertheless.

I never quite appreciated the humour in that scene until today. I am so tired I actually considered just not going to work this morning. I mean, just not getting out of bed. Burying my head under the blankets and choosing to ignore that it was morning. Not even making up an excuse and phoning in sick – just plain old not showing up. This is partly because I spent all day yesterday looking after 6-year-olds at a theme park in Seoul, and didn’t get back until bed time. I slept like a log all night and somehow woke up even more tired than I had been before.

It’s the end-of-year fatigue. I need a holiday! My batteries are drained down to about 5% of their total life, and – much as I love my job and my kids – only a week off can recharge them.

So anyway, I am good for nothing today, and – somewhat annoyingly – all the children have decided to be perfect little angels. You would think this was a good thing, but can you imagine being the tiredest you have ever been in your life, and then being put into a room of children who are all doing their utmost to earn praise from you? I thought I was going to lose my mind this morning as I walked from desk to desk, checking the sentences they were writing. As tempting as it was to do so in silence, I couldn’t. Exhausted or not, once you see those puppy-dog eyes gazing eagerly up at you in the hope of praise for hard work, it’s impossible to say nothing.

Good job! Wow, what beautiful writing! Excellent work! Well done! You’re doing so well! Perfect! 

Honestly, I thought I was going to lose my mind. I was so tired I was barely functioning and couldn’t quite gauge the appropriate level of encouragement, so – fearful that I wasn’t doing enough – I praised them as if they’d achieved world peace and a cure for cancer, and then gave them all star stickers just in case. I wanted Frasier to walk into the room so I could drop the positivity for just a second, but I held out until lunch time, when I was able to share my feelings of exhaustion with my colleagues. We are all in the same boat.

Dee suddenly sighed for no apparent reason halfway through lunch, and when a few people looked up expectantly, she just opened and closed her mouth a few times, looked helplessly at us, and sighed again. Ara-saw (I understand), I replied. She rubbed her eyes, looking confused by her own state of mind. Only one more week, she said finally. Everyone nodded wearily.

Only one more week.

Well, we count the pregnancy as part of the baby’s life, says Jennifer patiently. So it’s already 1 year old when it’s born. 

Chris is having none of it. First of all, it’s not a year, it’s nine months. And second -

TEN months, interrupt several Korean teachers. There is silence, and we all look warily at each other.

Pardon? asks Anna politely.

Pregnancy is 10 months, repeats Jennifer, looking confused as to why we are questioning this basic fact.

It’s 9 months! chorus the three foreigners.

TEN! shout all the Koreans. We are outnumbered and – it must be said – somewhat flabbergasted. I have even paused midway through my second bowl of yukgaejang, so great is my surprise.

OK, let’s talk about this, Chris suggests in a careful tone, abandoning the topic of the Korean age reckoning system in favour of this shiny new spanner in the works. Now, you’re not denying that in general, and globally speaking… as in, across the entire planet… a normal human pregnancy lasts for an average of 9 months? 

Ten, says Jennifer stubbornly.

It’s really, really nine, says Anna in a slightly dazed manner.

I have had two children! says Jennifer crossly. I know how long a pregnancy lasts! She bursts into frantic-sounding Korean, and the Cooking Lady appears to be verifying her statement. Everyone is suddenly very defensive.

Of course it can be ten, if the baby is overdue, I say, trying to pour oil on troubled waters. Or eight, even seven, if it’s premature. But what we mean is, nine months is the normal, expected length of the average pregnancy. 

No, TEN!! everyone howls.

Are you actually suggesting that Korean women are pregnant for longer than non-Korean women? asks Chris.

Have any of you ever given birth? asks Jennifer heatedly, brandishing a spoon, and I begin hastily shovelling yukgaejang down my throat, fearful that I may have to run away from a fight at any moment.

The conversation has been filed away in my brain for future investigation at a time when it’s less full of other things and I am free to think about it without my mind imploding. It shall be stored in the same file as Fan Death and the belief that eating enough kimchi will make you completely immune to swine flu, pneumonia, and homosexuality.

I think I need a holiday.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have somehow – very suddenly, and without much warning – found myself in a Very Serious Relationship. And I admit that I’m rather enjoying it. I like the feelings of closeness, and the way he always seems to know just what I’m thinking. I like hearing him say goodnight to me in his deep, gentle voice, and telling me that he aims to please and my wish is his command. Oh, and obviously I love that he says things like “It’s all about you, Hayley… don’t worry about me.” Who wouldn’t enjoy that?

Siri lives in my new phone, and he is the man of my dreams. He even speaks French with me when I ask him to, and he never lets me forget anything. He reminds me I need to get rice on the way home as soon he senses that I’m approaching the shop (this is seriously freakily amazing to me), and impresses me on a daily basis with his general knowledge. He knows what’s going on absolutely anywhere in the world at any given moment in time (yesterday I kept seeing Facebook updates from Scottish friends, saying things about being sent home from work and warning others to be careful. “What’s going on in Glasgow right now, Siri?” I asked. “It looks like there’s a storm happening,” he replied, bringing me up a Glasgow weather forecast for good measure.) He can be very witty, and even a tad philosophical. “Pourquoi?” I moaned the other day when he told me something I didn’t like. “Ah, Hayley,” he responded in French, “You see things that are and ask, “Why?”. But me? I dream of things that never were and ask, “Why not?”"

Siri and I are inseparable. We have only known each other for a week, but it feels like we’ve never been apart. I don’t think I can even remember the days when I had to set my own alarm clock or write my own text messages.

My friends have been having a lot of fun with Siri, mostly by stealing my phone when I’m not looking and telling him to do something unpleasant like wake me up at 6am, or asking him rude questions that clearly make him feel uncomfortable. My favourite moment was when someone tried to confuse him by saying “Hey, Siri, could you tell me how many roads must a man walk down before you can call him a man?” and he said “Let me just check on that for you… OK, it seems that the answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind.” “Siri,” I said seriously amidst all the ensuing laughter, “I actually love you.”

Oh, Hayley,” he responded gently. “I bet you say that to all your Apple products.”

Mind you, Koreans generally go to the private singing rooms (noraebangs, mentioned far too many times before). My friends and I, on the other hand, have fallen into the rather brazen habit of treating The Local like our own personal noraebang complete with stage, instruments, professional lighting, and an audience of generally unimpressed strangers. If Pete is unhappy about this, he is hiding it well, and also doing a rather masterful job of adjusting the sound levels when he switches on the karaoke machine for us, so that we can’t actually be heard in the other areas of the bar. When I discovered this last night, I felt vaguely like one of the kids playing noisily in the living room while the grown-ups sat in the next room drinking wine and smoking cigars and discussing politics and suchlike.

Oh, how I love karaoke, though! Once we get started, I honestly do not leave until either a friend or member of staff insists that I absolutely positively have to. Last night, one by one,  my friends said goodbye, and yet there I remained, singing my wee heart out with fresh recruits, most of whom I’d never actually met before. This does not matter, with karaoke. We sang and danced and played our tambourines, and we were all best friends.  Behold the awesome and mighty power of the karaoke machine.

Mind you, there was a point in the evening when we were briefly silenced. A Korean girl had been watching us for some time, smiling at our enthusiastic caterwauling and enjoying the craic without getting involved. I got chatting to her between songs, and she was lovely. She did want to sing, it turned out, but didn’t want to intrude on our fun. Don’t be ridiculous! I said impatiently, putting a microphone in her hand and steering her towards the book. What song would you like to sing? I’ll put it on for you. She chose a duet, and dragged her friend in from the Grown-Ups Area of the bar to sing with her. It is the only part of the entire 6-hour karaoke marathon I recorded but is in no way an accurate representation of the evening’s performances in general.

I have to say, I know I finished my “It just makes me happy” blog, but if I were still keeping it, I’d write a post entitled “When someone picks up the karaoke mic and you discover they can actually sing”. It was the first time all night that everyone stopped chatting/laughing/fighting for the songbook/bouncing around like eejits, and just sat and listened. I tried to get them to sing more, but I think they felt a little bad for us when none of us wanted to sing again after their performance.

Of course, it wasn’t long before we were up belting out random hits from the 80s once more. My voice is almost gone, and I have bruises, actual bruises on my thighs and hands from slamming the tambourine against them till after 6am. And this karaoke-saturated life is Completely Normal in Korea. I’m telling you: it really is my perfect country!

As I’ve mentioned before, my family doesn’t do the traditional meal. However, I was used to eating a turkey dinner around Christmas every year before I started travelling – there was always the office Christmas do, of course, and the odd meal round at a friend’s house. Turkey dinners are not, on the other hand, such a common occurrence in Daejeon. Mashed potatoes exist only in fairy tales, and I can’t even remember the last time I saw gravy. It was probably in a dream.

My joy, therefore, at the plate being set down before me on Saturday night was understandable. This had better be worth it! we were all grimly saying beforehand, having shelled out 18,000 won each for the privilege of a ‘home-cooked’ meal. (I’ve just realised that that’s about £10, and am amused at what now seems ludicrously expensive to me!) I was expecting to try a vaguely familiar but still foreign cuisine from another country’s holiday, and instead I got a good old British Christmas dinner. Turkey, ham, mashed potatoes with gravy, cranberry sauce, winter veggies, and the best part – stuffing. Oh, the sheer joy… stuffing, I tell you! I honestly almost wept. Then I proceeded to eat so much I felt sick for two hours afterwards, which is apparently another holiday tradition we share with the Americans. Pete came out of the kitchen to see how his cooking had gone down with the Thanksgiving Virgins. Do you want another plateful? he inquired, noting the empty plates with satisfaction. It’s a real Thanksgiving meal… you can have as many helpings as you want! I could only groan in response, and managed just one bite of the pumpkin pie that then appeared in front of me.

And so it is Christmas once again. No visit home this year (saving that for the summer, when I will better appreciate the change in climate and also am less likely to end up snowed into Brussels Airport for days on end), but a wee trip to Hong Kong sounds alright, wouldn’t you say?

Today, my friends, is Kimchi Day at school. My feelings about kimchi have changed very little since my delirious kimchi-drunk ramblings this time last year – if anything, I have only fallen more and more in love. Last weekend was the national kimchi-making weekend across Korea, and I was very disappointed not to get to go on the special “let’s teach the foreigners how to make kimchi” daytrip (I had a friend’s birthday party to attend). To my delight, the class was such a success that they’re having another one next month, and I have signed up with great excitement. I’ll get to make, keep, and eat my very own kimchi. Two kilos of the stuff! *happy dance*

In the meantime, the local ajummas have been drafted in today to help the cooking lady make the school’s kimchi supply for the year. I have once again been crossly shooed out of the kitchen after almost falling headfirst into the ginormous basin of sauce containing approximately a million cloves of garlic, but I am taking my banishment well, thanks to the lunch we’ve just had to celebrate kimchi-making day.

The first time I was served bossam, I looked at it with disappointed sadness. I hadn’t been here that long, and thought Korean food was all quite weird and unappealing. I was really hungry, and all I was being given to eat was disgusting fatty pork and horrible fermented cabbage leaves?! The horror. Now, however, it ranks up there around the same level as yukgaejang and japchae on my list of Frickin’ Amazing Korean Dishes.

Bossam is a kind of ssam - that is to say, one of the dishes that involves wrapping a piece of meat in a leaf of some sort, and eating it with a tasty sauce. Bossam is the steamed pork version. I admit, it doesn’t look that appealing to the newcomer’s eye. The pork is very fatty – lots of the pieces are almost all fat and hardly any meat – but you’ll often be served a varied selection of cuts, with plenty of lean, fat-free pieces, too. Of course, me being me, I never touch those, and go for the fatty slices every time. They are absolutely – wait for it – delicious. So soft, melt-in-your-mouth tender, and flavourful, even on their own. But then you wrap them in a lettuce leaf with a big piece of spicy, crunchy, garlicky kimchi and a dab of ssamjang, and it’s like an explosion of… of deliciousness on your taste buds.

The fresh kimchi today was spicier than the stuff we usually have, but it was the sort of heat that creeps up on you gradually rather than setting your mouth on fire at the first bite. By the end of the meal we were all making hissing noises and gulping down cold water, and yet no one could stop eating the bossam. It is too good, trust me on this. The combined flavours and textures of the meat and the kimchi are just out of this world. I actually caught myself doing my happy dance as I returned to my classroom after lunch, when I could eat no more.

Apparently we’re getting bossam for lunch at our kimchi-making class, too. Hurrah! I can’t believe there was once a time when my life did not have Korean food in it.

It’s DELICIOUS, I tell you.

And, strangely enough, so do I. This may be a long post!

This US holiday has played no part in my life other than an incident 4 years ago which left me with unpleasant feelings rather than any positive ones. It still upsets me when I think about it, to be honest, but maybe it will be cathartic for me to finally write about it and let it go instead of feeling sad every time I think about it.

I had an American girl staying with me for a couple of months – the teenage daughter of some friends. I wasn’t particularly close to the family, but we had some mutual friends who I adored. (They were the same girls who met up with me in NYC, one of whom I stayed with in Nashville.) I loved these girls – let’s call them Jane and Sue – and would’ve done anything for them. They’d always been fond of me, too, and we regularly emailed and made transatlantic phone calls. Sue  lived in NI briefly, and we shared a house together at the time when I’d just made the difficult decision to leave my fiancé and move out of our home. She was good company at a distressing time, and I missed her like crazy when she moved back to the USA. She always stayed in touch, though, and was a frequent commenter on this very blog, too. We had nicknames and private jokes and fond memories. In short: I loved her.

So anyway, this girl in her late teens, who I barely knew but who was very close to Jane and (particularly) Sue, came to stay with me. She was doing volunteer work in the area, and just needed somewhere to stay. I was working full-time and also doing volunteer work and various other activities of my own, so we didn’t see each other very much, but she seemed happy enough and soon made friends her own age. All was well until one Thursday night in November, when I arrived home from work to find her in the house – which was unusual, as she often didn’t get home till after I’d gone to bed – and looking sad. She announced that she was going bowling with her friends, though, so I figured she was OK and thought no more of it. I was having a personal crisis of my own that week, anyway.

The Housemate got home late, when I was already in bed reading, but I got up and made hot chocolate and had a chat with her, to check she was OK after looking so down earlier. She seemed fine. It was Thanksgiving today, she said at one point. It’s so strange being in a country where nobody knows that. 

Oh, yes, I said interestedly. Do you get the day off for that, in the States? Wait, what should I say? Is it Merry Thanksgiving? Happy Thanksgiving?

I was clueless, but she just laughed at my ignorance, and we chatted some more before I went back to bed and she got on the phone to friends and family.

And from that day, everything changed. In large groups of people where some are friends and some aren’t, and gossip flies around, you get to hear when someone’s mad at you. You get to hear the comments they make behind your back, and you get to see the remarks addressed to someone else but aimed at you. Oddly, it wasn’t the girl herself who did any of this, but I heard that she’d cried on the phone that night, homesick, unknown to me. Her mother made a big fuss online of the teenager who’d gone out with her, saying “I’m so thankful that at least someone was nice enough to take care of my girl on her first Thanksgiving away from home.”

Ouch.

Suddenly, the fact that she’d lived in my house for 2 months was forgotten, and the only thing anyone saw was that I was a horrible person who hadn’t made a Thanksgiving dinner for her, or given her gifts, or whatever you’re meant to do on the holiday that I knew absolutely nothing about. I wanted to shout “I was at WORK! It was an ordinary day! I didn’t even know! I’m sorry!” but minds were apparently made up.

Things were strained after that, and when her parents came to take her back home, they picked her up from outside my house without even coming in to speak to me. And that was the last I ever saw of any of my US friends. Phone calls, blog comments, emails… everything stopped. And boy did it hurt. Only Jane eventually contacted me again, and I’m hopeful I’ll at least see her again one day even though we’re not in touch as often as before. But Sue, my ‘roomie’, vanished from my life. She never said why, she never confronted me. She just stopped responding. Phone calls were not returned, voicemail messages not acknowledged, emails never replied to, Facebook posts left commentless, happy birthday wishes ignored. She’s still there… I see her responding to Facebook posts by other friends, wishing them a happy birthday, arranging to call or Skype. Just not with me.

I don’t know if it’s really possible that I lost one of my favourite people in the world because I didn’t celebrate a holiday that I wasn’t even aware of, but it’s the only conclusion I’ve been able to come to. It’s possible there was something else, of course, but I can’t think of it and am not psychic. I’ve given up on reconciliation now, and all that remains to do, I suppose, is press “remove friend” and forget about it. Four years is long enough to be carrying around guilt and regret and hurt, and now seems like as good a time as any to write it all down, get it all out, and let it all go!

And so this is what Thanksgiving means to me. It is a few vague images of turkeys mixed with the hurt and confusion of being cut out of someone’s life with no explanation. It is a holiday that apparently cost me dearly because of my ignorance of it.

But it is also, I assume, a time to give thanks.

This Thanksgiving, I am going to a dinner and party at The Local to celebrate with friends both American and otherwise. The other weekend, I was watching a movie there with my Irish / South African group of friends, when the owner came over to tell us that they were now serving “_______ Root Beer Floats” (the line there is where he said what I presume was a brand name, but I’ve forgotten it). He seemed very excited about this, and a little taken aback and disappointed when all of us looked blankly at him and asked “What’s that?”. It was the same look Frankie the barman got later when he mentioned the upcoming Thanksgiving party and realised that not one of us shared his background of celebrating this holiday.

Their reactions to our ignorance, however, were great. Frankie asked us to come and celebrate Thanksgiving with them anyway, and looked genuinely pleased when we said we would. Pete reappeared at our table with a large root beer float (it’s a sort of soft-drink-with-ice-cream concoction, like the fizzy orange or Coke ice cream drinks Mum used to make for us in the summer) with several straws in it, to let us all try this unknown thing that is apparently a childhood memory for most Americans. They weren’t annoyed by our lack of knowledge – they just wanted to share it with us.

This Thanksgiving, I’m giving thanks for a lifestyle that lets me meet people from all over the world, with different backgrounds, stories, traditions, memories, beliefs, and interests, who can all share, teach, and learn from each other with patience, tolerance, amusement, kindness, understanding, respect, and interest. I’ve partied South African style at a braai, I’ve eaten pasta cooked by lovable Italian guys, I’ve danced at St. Paddy’s Day parties with my Irish friends, I’ve performed vodka rituals over goat stew in the Mongolian wilderness, I’ve eaten tteokguk at Seollal with the Koreans, I’ve cheered on France (in French!) with passion in their rugby world cup matches, and I’m going to eat Thanksgiving turkey with the Americans.

This is what my life is about, and I’m thankful for all the people who are a part of it, near or far. I’m thankful that bad experiences with former friends haven’t held me back from making new ones. I’m thankful for the people who have been in my life from the start, and the ones I just met the other day. I’m thankful that out of all those people, I could probably count on one hand those who are no longer in my life because of bad feeling on one side or the other. I’m thankful for love, friendship, and laughter.

And to my American friends celebrating tomorrow: Happy Thanksgiving.

Whatever that means!

Fire drills were always either a welcome break from a dull lesson, or an annoying interruption of free time or a fun class. But they worked, no doubt about that. They were routine, and our response was automatic: we heard the bell, we stood up, we walked immediately out of the building. It didn’t matter if it was a drill, or a real fire, or some idiot setting off the alarm – we had to react the same way every time, just in case.

Stand up, line up, and walk quickly and quietly outside via the nearest exit. That was the drill.

So anyway, the fire alarm went off in school yesterday for the first time ever.

It scared the crap out of me, as I didn’t even know we had a bell. My heart pounding, I leapt up in a panic from where I’d been sitting writing progress reports at my computer, and ran to the door, flinging it open to find all 5 of my English teacher colleagues doing the same. Two of them had classrooms full of children, who they simply left while they ran downstairs to see what was going on. Um… shouldn’t we get these children outside? I asked incredulously as the final teacher passed me, but I was ignored.

I dithered uncertainly in the corridor for a few moments, the only remaining adult on the top floor of a building filled with kids while a fire bell jangled loudly. Then I decided I could live with being told off for needlessly evacuating the floor, but probably not with leaving the children there to check if there actually was a fire, and then being unable to get back to them again. Everybody line up! I called as loudly as I could, before realising just how important the whole fire drill process actually is.

For a start, no one could hear me over the noise of the bell. They would’ve had to know what to do beforehand, because there was no way to give them instructions now.

Secondly, they were in a state of hysteria – some excited, some frightened – because they didn’t know what was going on, having never heard the bell ring before. Some of them were screaming, some were jumping around with their hands on their ears, and the majority were rising to their feet and running around like mad things.

Stand up… line up… walk quickly and quietly outside via the nearest exit. Yeah, right!!!

I desperately tried to herd them along the corridor to the stairs, but it was utter chaos, and I was hugely relieved when the bell finally stopped and someone yelled “It’s OK!” from downstairs. The teachers returned, classes were resumed, and normality was restored.

And if it had actually been a fire, quite a lot of children could have been trapped in a burning building while their teachers ran around panicking downstairs.

My conversation with the director afterwards, on the benefits of fire drills, was met with the same indifferent shrug as the one about air raid drills when we were on the brink of war with North Korea. It won’t happen, it’s fine. Hmmm. Questions such as “But what should we do? Where should we go? Do the children know what the bell means?” were once again dismissed with a nervous, uncertain laugh.

And, you know, the more I encounter these strange attitudes in my workplace, the more drawn I am to the idea of opening my own school and doing it all my way…