My Favourite Photos of 2020

My god, but 2020 sucked.

With COVID-19 keeping us in lockdown for much of the year and with travel restricted, I often found little time to pull out my cameras and capture images around the Ottawa area and a few places in Ontario.

I should clarify: I had no interest in subjecting myself to other people's germs. I went to the grocery stores as seldom as possible and stayed away from restaurants, pubs, gyms, and any place where there was even a remote chance that people could get too close to me. I did get out as often as I could, and when I did go out, I usually picked up a camera of some kind to capture whatever was out there.

With two D-SLRs, two 360-degree cameras, and a smartphone, I did manage to take advantage of the greater outdoors to capture some images that I'd like to share in my annual, end-of-the-year post.

Warning: as is typical with these posts, there is some content that may be considered not appropriate for the work environment. Actually, there's only one, but this year I'm starting with the NSFW photograph. If you're reading this blog post in a public venue, where there are eyes about, you may want to either wait till later to read this post or scroll quickly to the second image.

But if you're still working from home or if you're in a place where you have privacy, feel free to continue.

You've been warned (and hopefully, I've added enough content that this post opens such that the first image is not immediately visible). You're welcome.

I didn't take many photos before the March lockdown kept me mostly inside. In January, I attended a model shoot, before even the first case of COVID-19 was discovered in Ottawa.

The photo project focused on shooting a nude subject with coloured gels. One of my favourite images from that meetup was with the use of red and blue gels. The pose of the model, Roxanne, celebrates the female form and the colour provides an artistic touch.

In the first couple of months of 2020, DW and I commuted together because DW had broken a toe on her right foot and was unable to drive. My commute took me, once again, over the Champlain Bridge, and on one afternoon, as I was on my way to collect DW on our way home, the sky over the Ottawa River turned dramatic as the sun set in the west. I pulled onto Bate Island and took this shot.

The first weekend of the lockdown saw clear skies and warmer temperatures. DW and I would often go for walks, and on the Sunday morning, we made our way down to the Chapman Mills Conservation Area, a short drive from home. As we walked the trail and neared the Vimy Memorial Bridge, I caught the contrasting colours of a sumac, with the white bridge before the blue sky. I couldn't help but capture that image.

On a subsequent walk--this time, at the Central Experimental Farm--I saw another contrast of red and blue:

As spring came, I was feeling more and more cooped up. So when my company gave everyone a free day off, I got up before the sun, hopped in my car, and headed to three Ottawa Valley towns to catch some pre-dawn, sunrise, and early morning photos. Here are my favourite shots from that outing:

When the Tulip Festival opened, in May, the regular vendors and attractions were absent but the flowers still made an appearance. City regulations for the pandemic eased so that people could go to parks, but social distancing remained in effect. The National Capital Commission, who had previously prohibited people for stopping in parks, allowed you to come to Commissioner's Park to enjoy and photograph the tulips and daffodils.

One evening, I headed out to take some evening shots downtown. The streets were largely deserted of people, so I had no issue taking pictures around Major's Hill Park and the National Gallery of Canada. My favourite shot of the night was of Maman: this photo is now my lock screen on my smartphone.

To stay active, DW and I purchased kayaks, the ultimate social-distancing activity. We managed to get out dozens of times over the warmer months, from paddling near our house, on the Rideau River, to Algonquin Park, the 1,000 Islands, and several other waterways.

One of my favourite shots of 2020 isn't that great a photo, but it sums up our time in our kayaks. Shot with my Insta360 One X, it's a distorted selfie of me in my trusty craft, in Algonquin Park. Try not to look too closely at the stitch line.

Of course, there are other shots that I've taken from my kayak, and here are a few of my favourites:

In late July, I thought I would try my luck in capturing Comet NEOWISE as it passed the night sky. I headed to Shirley's Bay, where I actually found and captured an image of the comet. But before the sky got dark enough to see this celestial body, I took a few shots of the fading sunset along the Ottawa River.

My favourite time to take photos is during twilight, either just before sunrise or just after sunset. During blue hour, you can capture some pretty dramatic sights. One summer night, in Pakenham, I took photos of the Five Span Bridge. Initially, I couldn't decide whether the post-sunset shot or the blue-hour shot was the best, but finally I have come to a decision:

Sunsets in Ottawa can be pretty spectacular, but sunsets with a storm rolling in are breathtaking. I was relieved that the thunder and lightning didn't turn to rain.

DW and I spent a lot of time at a friend's house, but always socially distanced and outdoors. Our friend owns a farm about an hour east of Ottawa, and there was always something interesting to capture with a camera.

But downtown Ottawa, especially after sunset, was the best place to be. With so few people out, especially after dark, there was no problem keeping my distance.

Hopefully, with the vaccine rolling out, 2021 will be much brighter. Stay safe and be happy.

Happy New Year! Thanks for your support.

The Project That Never Was

It wasn't a case of nerves, this time.

It wasn't a case of laziness, though I'm sure that there was, perhaps, a little of that.

It came down to the pandemic and my overwhelming reluctance to get close to people, particularly the people I don't know.

My project was a bust, but I look at the success—my ability to keep the virus from spreading through my encounters with total strangers. Though the risk was low, it wasn't zero. And if COVID-19 is going to spread through low-risk interaction with strangers, I wasn't going to be responsible.

I wanted to get outside and photograph another 100 strangers, a pandemic version of my project from a few years ago. But the more I thought of it, the more it dawned on me that it wasn't a good idea. This year, the only time I've taken my camera outdoors, I've made an effort to ensure that I kept my distance. With the exception of a photo shoot that I did in the summer, I have avoided group photo meetups.

There was that time that I was approached by strangers while I photographed the Rideau Falls, but I made sure those strangers kept at least three metres away.

Today, I had originally planned to show my photos of the 100 people that I had approached, identified myself, and requested a photograph. Instead, I'm wasting your time, telling you of the project that never came to be. I'm postponing my 100-stranger project for when I can approach people without the fear of catching something from one person and spreading it on to many more.

If you're looking for photographs, I'll be sharing my favorite photos of 2020. I promise.

And So This Is Christmas

This is a Christmas unlike any that we've had in our lifetime. I hope that all of you, no matter what you celebrate, are safe and happy, socially distancing.

Let's be good to one another.

Operation: Christmas

I first posted this story in 2011 and have now made it my holiday tradition. If you haven't read it before, I hope you enjoy it. If you have read it before, I'm hoping that you make it your holiday tradition in reading it again.

Merry Christmas and best wishes for a safe and happy holiday season!

At first, we did it out of excitement for the season and impatience, unable to wait until morning. Later, it became a game about how far we could go, about how much risk we were willing to take. It was a test in organizational skills and stealth.

In time, it would become a ritual.

The first time we crept from our bedrooms and down the stairs, anxious to see what Santa had left us, my younger sister, Jen, and I faced our biggest obstacle: each other.

"Go to bed," I whispered, not wanting her to make any noise, thereby arousing the attention of our parents, who had only a half hour ago, or earlier, had gone to bed after placing our wrapped gifts under the tree. Our older sister, Holly, was sound asleep, seemingly able to contain her excitement and curiosity, and able to wait until the morning.

The first time that Jen and I met on the stairs, we got our parents' attention: "Get into bed," my mother called from her bedroom, "or Santa won't come." Reluctantly, Jen and I returned to our respective rooms, giving each other the stink eye for having spoiled the other's plans at checking out the cache of presents.

Later that night, after I had deemed that everyone was fast asleep, I slowly made my way downstairs once again. I would pause on the stairs every time a step creaked, waiting to hear if anyone had stirred at the soft noise. It took a couple of minutes to reach the ground floor and sneak to our living room, where our Christmas tree stood. I had reached my destination without arousing suspicion.

I was a stealth machine.

A faint light illuminated the living room through our sheer curtains from the outdoor street lights, casting a twinkling glow off the tinsel and glass balls on the tree. My eyes, which had already adjusted to the darkness of my bedroom, could easily make out the outline of the tree and the mound of boxes and parcels underneath it. I saw the stockings, filled to bursting, hanging off the edge of the shelf of our wall unit—our house having no fireplace or mantle. I slowly approached the tree, making my way towards the light switch underneath the tree, the one that would light up the tree and give me a clear view of the gifts.

I was so busy moving quietly, using my eyes to the best of their abilities, making sure that I didn't trip over a present, that I hadn't used my ears to detect another presence. Coming into the living room, equally quiet, was Jen.

"What are you doing here?" I whispered.

"The same thing as you," was the response.

"You're going to wake everyone up," I complained.

"Not if I keep quiet," she said. "You're the one making all of the noise."

I knew that by continuing to argue, we'd wake the rest of the household. We dropped our voices to a barely audible whisper. "What should we do?" I asked.

"Want to turn on the Christmas tree?" Jen suggested.

"I was just about to do that," I said, "but only for a second." I was afraid that somehow the light would make its way out of the living room, up the stairs and down the hall, through my parent's closed door, and up to their shut eyes. Such was the paranoid logic of a young kid who was not where he was supposed to be.

I reached for the switch and the tree sparkled in the warm glow of the lights. Jen and I let our eyes wander over the packages and the brightly patterned paper, trying to see through the wrap and trying to discern the gift by its shape. We kept the lights on for only a couple of seconds, and before we felt that we could run further risk, we immersed ourselves once again in darkness.

We decided that it was too great a risk to remain downstairs any longer, so we agreed to return to our rooms. We further agreed that we shouldn't try ascending the stairs at the same time, so Jen went first, and when I knew that she was safely in her room, I made my way to my own.

Operation: Christmas was born.

The next morning, as Jen and I sat in our living room with our older sister and our parents, we gave each other a smiling look, silently communicating that we shared a little secret, that we had gotten away with a reconnaissance of our haul of gifts. No one else in the room knew what we had done. We had gotten cleanly away with this act.

Leading up to the following Christmas, Jen and I privately discussed going downstairs to take another sneak peek at the gifts under the tree. But this year, we agreed that we would be more organized. We synchronized our clocks so that we would have our rendezvous better-timed. Also, with the mystery of Santa Claus pretty much worn out on us, our parents told us that they had decided that they would put our stockings at the end of our beds before they went to bed themselves. They told us that if we were to awake to our stockings in our rooms, it would buy them a little more sleep by keeping us occupied with oranges, small toys, and other treats.

Before that Christmas Eve, Jen and I had decided that when our folks came into our rooms to put the stockings at the end of our beds, we would feign sleep. We would listen for them retiring to their own room, and then we'd wait a half hour. We would then give each other an additional 15 minutes to go through our stockings and check out our haul.

And then it was showtime.

We would quietly step out of our rooms and wait for the other to show up in the hall. We would then head down the stairs together. In the weeks leading up to the big night, we would make a note of the squeaks in the steps and either place our foot on a side of that step that didn't creak or, failing to find a safe spot, avoid that step altogether. We memorised the walking pattern, going up and down the stairs until we got it right. We were confident that we wouldn't make a sound on our way to and from the tree.

In the second year, I brought a flashlight. We would still turn the tree on so that we could marvel at the packages underneath, but would use the flashlight to better read the writing on the packages to find which of the gifts belonged to us.

On our way back up, we heard a stirring from my folks' room. We froze. We didn't know if one of our parents had simply moved or was on their way to investigate some sound we might have made. We stood, halfway up the staircase, remaining silent and motionless until we deemed it was safe to proceed.

That was year two.

In the years that followed, we continued the tradition. Jen and I got more sophisticated. We drew maps of the upper and ground floors, marked out a plan of where who should be at what time. We ran drills when we were home alone. Operation: Christmas became a finely choreographed exercise.

We became emboldened: we'd turn the lights on the Christmas tree and leave them on for as long as we were downstairs. We'd stay longer, counting up our presents and figuring out what each one was, based on what we had asked for versus the size of a package. We would get ourselves a snack from the kitchen and eat it, surrounded by wrapped boxes.

In our teens, we would unwrap the gifts, confirming what we suspected the package to be. If we could further remove the gift from it's casing or box, we'd do it. We'd play with our stuff. And then we would carefully re-wrap the present and put it back where our parents had arranged it. Some Christmases, we'd return to our bedrooms, knowing exactly what we we would be getting, for real, in a few short hours.

The thrill of Christmas morning came in the form of feigned surprise, both of us doing our best at keeping from laughing out loud. Sometimes, Jen and I couldn't make eye contact for fear of bursting out in hysterics.

We also enjoyed the surprise of seeing what our sister, Holly, had received under the tree. The thought of unwrapping her gifts during our operation wasn't even a consideration. Touching Holly's presents was clearly taboo.

Operation: Christmas went on for years, until Jen finally moved out of the house. Even though she was younger than me, she flew the coup first. Our game was over. I never went to check on the presents by myself. Operation: Christmas wouldn't have been the same without a partner in crime.

When we became adults, Jen and I confessed our crime. Our parents wouldn't believe us. They couldn't accept that we would have the capability of pulling off such a caper, that we'd be able to unwrap gifts, play with the toys, and put the presents back together. Not without our parents detecting anything was amiss. Jen and I just looked at each other, smiled, and shared our memories in silence.

For us, the magic of Christmas includes our scheme. For me, remembering Operation: Christmas was a ritual that brought me closer to my sister than any other game we played as kids during daylight hours. It was our special time together.

And isn't that what Christmas is all about?

Wordless Wednesday: Festive Lights

The Secret Santa

First told in December, 2014, this Christmas tale is now a Brown Knowser holiday repeat. If you're new to my blog, I hope you enjoy it; if you've read it before, I hope that it puts you in the holiday spirit.

He never cared for Secret Santas in the office, or anywhere, for that matter. He didn't feel the need to pick a random name from a hat and then try to figure out something about that practical stranger (he just knew that, as luck would have it, he would pick the name of someone that worked in a distant part of the office, someone that he didn't know well), and he would then spend money and time choosing a gift that would not enrich the life of that individual, would not be something that would give that individual anything that he or she would truly want.

He used to participate in Secret Santa at work, feeling compelled by peer pressure. But over the years, he had become immune to peer pressure, would only participate in an office social activity if he truly wanted to.

And, usually, he didn't want to.

He wasn't a Grinch, nor a Scrooge, but especially, he wasn't a Secret Santa.

It was Christmas Eve and, as with every year, he did the bulk of his Christmas shopping at the last minute. He usually had an idea of what he needed to buy—his wife did most of the shopping for the kids and extended family members, and he needed only to focus on finding something for his wife, plus a few little things for the kids and some stocking stuffers for everyone in the family.

But one of the main reasons that he liked to shop in the stores on Christmas Eve was because he had worked retail in his youth, and he knew that there could be lots of stressed shoppers, lots of folks out there who treated store employees like crap, and so he liked to go in and be extra-nice to those workers, to try and make them feel appreciated.

He jokingly referred to the city's oldest shopping mall as the geriatric centre, as there was an abundance of grey-haired folks with walkers and canes, moving slowly through the corridors and spending extra time in the shops, looking to strike up conversations with the employees, form some sort of connection with a friendly face. For a short time, he had even worked in the bank branch in that mall, where he would spend more time just chatting with the seniors who paid a visit than actually conducting business.

That was fine: most of them were friendly, kind, courteous. The only time when he didn't like encountering seniors was a time when he wasn't working in the mall—it was when his kids were infants, and he and his wife would navigate the hallways and department-store aisles with a wee one in a stroller. He and his wife would constantly be held up, as the elderly would faun over the children, would reach out to stroke a smooth cheek.

"Please don't touch my baby," he would say, his voice flat, unemotional, but authoritative, before any contact could be made between old and new skin.

But still, he liked going to that mall. It had plenty of good shops that catered to a wide variety of needs and it was in a convenient part of town. And so, on Christmas Eve, as he was making his final purchases before heading home, he found himself in one of these stores, waiting in line behind a silver-haired lady who was using a wheeled walker for support as she tried to purchase a few items for her grandsons (as he understood from the conversation with the person who was trying to ring up the sale).

The senior moved slowly, her shoulders slumped from a busy day of shopping or perhaps from a lifetime of hard work. She seemed to be in no rush to finish her purchases, was content to idly chat with the saleswoman. The cashier, in turn, was friendly but purposeful: there were others waiting to tally their items, to move on to more shopping or to head home.

When the elderly lady's items were summed up, she opened her oversized purse, retrieved her wallet, and selected a credit card.

It didn't take long to learn that the credit card had been declined, as the point-of-sale terminal sounded a low beep and the saleslady grimaced. The elderly woman asked in a meager voice if the salesperson could try it again, and again, the card was declined.

"I don't understand," the woman said, "I've been using it all day." Indeed, an assortment of parcels and bags rested on her walker. She reached into her wallet and selected another credit card. "Try this one," she said, handing it to the cashier.

The second credit card was also declined.

Silence.

The woman dropped her head, her eyes moving back and forth in their sockets as she made mental calculations, tried to figure where she went wrong. Those shoulders, which already sagged, seemed to slump further in her perturbation. Her face denoted sadness, as though she might cry, as she came to terms with the possibility that her grandsons would not be receiving the gifts she had finally found for them.

The salesperson, meanwhile, looked at the man, patiently waiting, with an apologetic smile, unsure about how to deal with the woman who could not pay but who had not determined her next course of action.

The man was neither a Grinch nor a Scrooge, and though he wanted only to make his purchase and leave the mall, he also didn't want to see this frail lady leave empty-handed. It was Christmas Eve, after all.

He looked the salesperson in the eyes and mouthed, "It's okay, let her go. I'll pay for her." He held cash in hand to show that he was good for the amount owed.

"Really?" the salesperson whispered back, her eyes wide, finding it hard to believe that a total stranger would show such a level of sympathy and compassionate generosity.

He nodded. Smiled.

"Oh, it looks like we're good," the salesperson said to the woman after pretending to check the register again. "I guess our machine slowed down." She placed the goods in a bag and handed it over, the cancelled transaction slips in the bag. The senior loaded up her walker and began wheeling it towards the mall.

It had only been a thirty-dollar purchase. The man wasn't going to miss the extra amount that he paid. The old lady would likely discover what had happened after she was safe at home—if she bothered to look at the voided receipts, that is. Perhaps, she might not ever know.

If she had other shopping to do and tried to use those credit cards, she would discover that they couldn't be used. That would be a problem for her and the next salesperson to sort out. But at least she could bring her grandsons some joy.

Only the salesperson and the man would know what truly happened. On this Christmas Eve, for the first time ever, he could claim to be a true Secret Santa, anonymous and giving something truly desired.

And that was good enough for him.

Me, The Grinch

This blog post was originally posted on December 20, 2011, and has become a traditional Brown Knowser holiday tale. If you have read it before, I hope you enjoy it again. If this is your first read, I hope it won't be your last.

^*On some level, I'm not a fan of Christmas. Not of the decorating, nor of the card giving (actually, the Brownfoots have pretty much given up on that front), nor, especially, of the shopping. I hate going near the malls and department stores at this time of year: fighting crowds, standing in lines, searching for that ever-elusive parking space.

Not being religious, the spiritual side of Christmas is lost on a cynic like me. Our family doesn't go to church, participates in no rituals that have long ago been stolen from the Pagans. We have no manger on display, no angel on high.

My participation in these year-end, winter festivities usually includes some shopping, taking the family to a farm to search for and cut down our tree, and then driving it home, standing it in the house, and helping my wife with the lights and flashy, gold garland. Once that's done, I leave the room and let the three girls hang the ornaments while they blast music from the annual traditional Christmas CD.

Even as a kid, that tradition didn't interest me much. And, as my children grow older, as they now know that there is no Santa Clause, Christmas seems to weigh heavier and heavier on me.

To understand how my view of Christmas has, over the decades, eroded, I have to go back to when I was in my mid to late teens, and then into my early twenties that really changed my views on Christmas.

For many years, I worked in retail. In late 1991, at the age of 16, my folks decided that it was time to wean me from my allowance, telling me that I was old enough to earn my own income. And so I got a job in a paint and wallpaper store in our local shopping mall. I worked there—and at a couple of our other franchise shops in two other Ottawa shopping malls—for four years, helping customers choose colours and patterns to spread over their walls. In some cases, I even offered my services in applying the paint or wallpaper, or both, for them. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, however, I witnessed my customers, who were generally easy to please, grow stressed as they frantically tried to get their houses in order in time for the holidays. Many left things to the last minute ("What do you mean? Latex paint needs thirty days to cure before I can hang wallpaper on it??").

I worked in the Merivale Mall off-and-on for more than thirteen years, working at the paint and wallpaper store, a camera shop, and at a bank. And what I learned from my experience there is that I hate—absolutely HATE—the retail side of Christmas. I hated that on the very day after Hallowe'en—before Thanksgiving^**, for cryin' out loud—the Christmas decorations went up in the mall, Santa's village began construction, carolers strolled up and down the promenade. Christmas sales began. In the camera store, Christmas season officially ran from November 1^st to December 24^th. Mercifully, I never worked anywhere that held Boxing Week specials. But the weeks following Christmas were just as busy, as customers returned unwanted items (I probably hated that time of year more than the pre-Christmas rushes).

Working in retail over the holiday season was an exercise in patience to the n^th degree. In the early weeks of the Christmas sales, people were generally in good spirits, though I honestly believe that these people were generally happy, well-organized individuals—they were, after all, getting their shopping done early. They were beating the crowds. They probably found parking in less than thirty minutes. And they were in and out before the Jolly Old Elf made his appearance (the Santa at the Merivale Mall was a bald, cigar-smoking dude who always had dark, sagging bags under his eyes. I'd run into him, out of costume, in the corridors behind the shops; he creeped me out). But as the big day arrived, people grew grumpy, stressed, and quick to anger. On one Christmas Eve at the camera shop, in the last hour before we closed our doors, I had one guy tear a strip off me because the camera he wanted to buy was sold out. Not surprising, as it was the hottest camera of the year—we had sold out days earlier. And he expected to find it waiting for him?

The experience left me with an emotional scar. But it wasn't just the angry last-minute shopper in the camera store that ruined Christmas for me. Not on his own. He was just the catalyst for that day. As I left the mall at the end of my shift, walking through the parking lot, I heard two men screaming at each other over a parking spot, both standing outside their cars, whose front ends where nosed up to the vacant space. As they prepared to come to blows, I piped up with a heart-felt rendition of Silent Night, which was met with an aggressive "Fuck off" and a "Mind your own business."

On the way home (I walked, by the way: at that time of year, walking was faster than trying to drive on Merivale Road), I decided to stop at a drug store to pick up some snacks and extra tape in anticipation of a night of wrapping gifts and visiting friends. When I lined up at the cash register, a man was screaming at the poor clerk, a young lady who was obviously not the manager or owner. I had, in fact, seen her behind  the counter many times before. She was always cheerful and polite, and was a good employee. Any retailer would want her on his staff. But now, she was almost in tears. I don't know what the man was screaming about, but it was obvious that this nice clerk had failed in helping him in one way or another. All I saw was a mean-spirited man handing out his rage on a tarnished platter.

And I got angry. This was no way to talk to anyone, especially on Christmas Eve. "Peace on Earth, good will to men," I said in a loud but cheery voice, trying to dispel the anger.

"Peace on Earth, my ass," the man said. Nice. "I bought the wrong batteries and this girl won't take them back." He waved a package of Duracell AAs, the cardboard torn, the package opened. Perhaps, even, the batteries tried? I understood: the clerk couldn't take the batteries back because he had opened the package. The batteries could not be returned to the shelf; no one would buy a pack of opened batteries. At the camera shop, we had the same policy.

"But you opened the package," I said. "Of course, you can't return them."

"Why don't you mind your own business?" the man spat at me. Other customers came to the line and, to my relief, they seemed to take the clerk's side. "Why don't you give the girl a break?" said one. The disgruntled customer screamed some more obscenities at the poor girl behind the counter, promised to never shop there again (much to the clerk's relief, I'm sure), and stormed out.

It was probably at this moment that I came to the decision that I hated Christmas. That is to say, I hated the consumerism side of it (insert the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas here). In the evolution of the holiday, we have placed the material above the ideal—the spirit, if you will. In my remaining years in the Merivale Mall, I learned to dread the Christmas season because it always stirred  memories of this day. Of the hostility and rage from the last-minute shopper, the parking foes, and the disguntled idiot who didn't know which batteries he needed.

I hate Christmas shopping. I try to avoid it. But with a family, that's hard to do. And so I try to get it out of the way as painlessly as possible. I'm not an early shopper, but I have most of my purchases before the last minute. I leave little things to the last minute—things that, should I be unable to find, I really don't care. And I'm always polite with the retail workers. I always have a smile, I always have something nice to say. If a retailer cannot help me find what I'm looking for, I don't hold it against him or her. I never complain.

I think everyone should work a mandatory year in retail so that he or she can empathize with the clerks that do this day in and day out. It's not easy dealing with a public that hasn't walked in a retailer's shoes.

So what does Christmas mean to me? From the day that I walked home from the drug store, Christmas has meant only one thing: time. Time with family and friends. Time to appreciate what I have. Time to be the best that you can be to others.

^* Image of The Grinch © 1966 Warner Home Video. All rights reserved.

^** Thanksgiving, in Canada is the third Monday in October—more than two months before Christmas.

Friday Fiction: Tourist for a Day

The following is a draft excerpt from my novel, Gyeosunim. If you haven't read my previous novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, be warned that there are spoilers and you may be missing some context.

Saturday, May 11, 2019

It was something that I had wanted to do in 1997 and in 1998, but had never found the time. And though Tanya and I had visited Seoul many times in 1997, we spent the majority of time with my old friend from Ottawa, Naomi.

Naomi Warner was an economist and financial advisor with First Canadian, an international bank, and had lived in the U.N. Village, in Hannam-Dong. She had arrived in Korea a few months after I had settled in Chŏnju: when she had learned of her posting, she contacted me to let me know that she would be arriving, and she gave me her Seoul address. On my first trip to Seoul, I sought out her upcoming residence, took some photos, and sent them to her.

Naomi had been Kristen’s best friend since university. After Kristen’s death, Naomi constantly tried reaching out to me, even though I withdrew into my grief. After the funeral, where we buried Kristen, our three-year-old daughter, Laura Elizabeth, and my dad, Naomi would come by my house a couple of times a week, bringing food, checking on my well-being, and letting me know that I had a friend who cared. But as I began drinking more and more to try and blot out my misery, I answered the door less and less. I stopped answering the phone, but Naomi always left messages. I could hear her voice as the answering machine recorded her message, until the memory space filled and stopped accepting calls.

After Siobhan and Mum had come to my rescue, to sober me up and get me moving again, Naomi was one of the first people I telephoned to thank and to let know that I was beginning my journey to move forward. She was the first of my friends to be invited back into my home, was the first friend to learn about my decision to move to Korea. Perhaps, when she was offered the bank posting in Seoul, the decision to accept the move was helped by knowing that I was already in the country.

The first time that Naomi and I saw each other in Seoul, I had brought Tanya with me. It was Tanya who told me, a short time later, that Naomi had a crush on me. I didn’t believe it, but Tanya insisted. “When you speak, she hangs on your every word, doesn’t take her eyes off of you. And she doesn’t like me. Her face changes when you say my name and she doesn’t look at me when I speak.” I don’t think I saw it because I was too in love with Tanya at the time to notice.

It wouldn’t be until my second year in Korea that I realized just how right Tanya had been.

That was then.

Today, Naomi was back in Canada, was now the chief analyst for First Canadian, working out of their headquarters in Toronto. I would often see her on streamed video, through the CBC, or hear her voice when I tuned into CBC Radio, or read quotes from her, in online news, whenever they needed to report on Canadian or world markets. She was the trusted authority on the economy.

Of course, she and I were still close friends, even though we lived on different continents. Naomi had returned to Canada after her three-year run in Seoul. She was now married to a lawyer at a top law firm in Toronto and was a doting mother to two teenage daughters. I was Naomi’s best man—she chose me instead of a bridesmaid—and I am now the godfather to her girls. We try to see each other at least once a year, with either Fiona and I making the trip to Toronto or Naomi and her family coming to Scotland, or the six of us travelling to other destinations.

Naomi never returned to Seoul. After her posting had finished, she vowed to never return. “Korean men are impossible to deal with,” she said. “They treat women as inferior and never take us seriously. It’s a wonder that I got anything done at all.” The fact that she made great strides in Seoul was a testament to her abilities.

In all the visits that I had made to Seoul, from 1997 to 1999, I had never made it to the great palace, Gyeongbokgung, for the changing of the guard. This colourful display of soldiers in traditional uniforms, marching from a parade ground to the front gates, was performed twice a day, and I had always missed it. Whenever I had taken the bus from Chŏnju to Seoul, I would have had just enough time to make the 10:00 performance, but instead I always headed straight to Hannam-Dong to enjoy brunch with Naomi. Several times, we vowed to make the 2:00 show, but something would always keep us from the palace.

More than twenty years later, I was determined to make it on time.

I arose with the sun from my room at ENA Suites and wandered the quiet streets. Even with a population of nearly ten-million citizens, the downtown core of Seoul sees little traffic on early Saturday mornings. I walked a couple of laps around the main streets that formed a triangle around my hotel, getting the lay of the land and scoping out a place for breakfast. The nearby Holly’s Coffee shop didn’t appear to be open, but a Paris Baguette Café that was a couple of doors down, along Sejong-daero, showed signs that it was readying its doors for opening. After my third lap of this neighbourhood, I returned to my room to shower—it was hot already and I had worked up a sweat—grab my camera gear, and head out for the day.

The breakfast sandwich at Paris Baguette Café reminded me of the kind that you find at a Starbucks, except this one had some semblance of vegetable, be it a thinly sliced tomato. Having it heated made the mystery cheese melt and partially run onto my napkin. The sauce, a spiced mayonnaise, was liberally applied and a lot of it joined the lost cheese. The coffee that I had accompanied my breakfast was extremely hot but was quite good, once it had cooled enough that I could drink it. Coffee in Korea had come a long way since 1999.

Once I was sufficiently fed, I wandered up Sejong-daero, past city hall, past the statues of General Yi and King Sejong, and up to Gyeongbokgung, the principal palace of the Chosun Dynasty. Built in 1395, it was the largest of the five palaces that were constructed in Seoul for this dynasty. In 1592, during the Japanese invasion, Gyeongbokgung was burned to the ground, and over the ensuing centuries it slowly made its way to recovery, despite subsequent fires and further Japanese occupations. To this day, restorations were ongoing.

The changing of the guard started a couple of minutes late but was the colourful performance that it promised. Musicians, which took up the tail end of the parade, played a screeching and percussive melody that made me think of bagpipes back home, but without the droning bass hum. I stood on a slight rise, facing the eastern walls of the first set of walls inside the palace grounds, and watched the performance with scores of other visitors, many who were dressed in hanbok—traditional Korean costumes—which were rented to tourists, enabling them to gain entrance to many attractions at reduced cost, or even free. Brad had told me about the rentals, which I had flat-out refused to wear.

As the guard procession made its way toward the main gates, the crowds were permitted to cross the parade grounds behind it, and I followed the throng through the next wall, further inward toward the main palace. As I wandered the grounds, I noticed that major renovations and expansions had taken place over the past twenty years. The black tiled roofs seemed newly replaced and lacked the faded grey that inevitably befalls them after prolonged exposure to the sun. Many walls were a clean grey stone, indicating that they were new. Though my memory of past visits to Gyeongbokgung was not as fresh, it seemed to take me much longer to work my way through the myriad courtyards as I headed north. After about an hour and a half, I found myself at the far northeast corner of the palace, where it ended at the Korean National Folk Museum. I exited the grounds, on Cheongwa-daero, and continued northeast to an area that I had also wanted to see, twenty years ago, but never found the time: Bukchon Hanok Village.

This six-hundred-year-old neighbourhood climbs up a modest hill and faces toward the south of the city. From here, I could see the palace, the towering old structure of the Folk Museum, and beyond that, past the modern office buildings and through a growing haze, Namsan Tower. Bukchon Hanok Village was crammed with traditional Korean homes around narrow streets and alleyways. As it was still a functioning neighbourhood, signs reminded visitors that residents appreciated quiet. I wandered the corridors, snapping photographs, constantly checking the time. I had promised to meet Brad and Wilma for lunch in the nearby neighbourhood of Insa-Dong.

As I worked my way through the main thoroughfare of this tourist shopping district, Insadong-gil, memories of my last visit here, at the end of March, in 1999, came rushing back. It was an unseasonably mild day and I only had to wear a light sweater. I had just returned from a month-long trip to Hong Kong, Singapore, Malaysia, and Thailand, and was saying a final farewell to Korea before returning to Canada. On that day, Naomi met me for traditional tea at one of the neighbourhood’s oldest tea houses. We enjoyed a pot of green tea, served by a beautiful woman in hanbok who performed a ritual of warming the cups with hot water and ensuring that the tea had steeped to perfection. After tea, we wandered Insa-Dong until we found a small restaurant, where we ate cold noodles for lunch, and then wandered the neighbourhood, searching for souvenirs, before making our way to her Hannam-Dong home for my last night in Korea.

Brad and Wilma had described a landmark building along Insadong-gil, a brown-bricked structure with vines growing up the façade. The name of the traditional Korean pottery shop was Ssamziegil, but the two giant yellow Hangul characters for the double-S stood out. I found my friends standing outside the front of the shop, at the centre of the intersecting pedestrian streets. Though it was still technically spring, Wilma wore a floral-patterned summer dress with a matching sunhat and brown designer sunglasses. Her perfectly white Vans made for sensible but fun footwear. Brad was dressed in khaki trousers with light-brown leather shoes. His light-blue short-sleeved shirt showed a darker-blue t-shirt poking at the top of the buttons. His expedition hat, with a wide, black band, almost matched his pants. His sunglasses were gold-rimmed and were, no doubt, prescription eyewear.

“Right on time, Roland,” said Brad, though we both knew I was nearly five minutes late. I prided myself on punctuality but I had underestimated the walk from the Bukchon Hanok Village. Though the crowds had been light at the start of my day, I had found the sidewalks packed with citizens and tourists, alike. Brad was being polite at not pointing out my tardiness.

I embraced my friends and then I was led down a side street to an old restaurant, where we feasted on bulgogi, traditional Korean barbecue, and fresh vegetables. This was my first truly Korean meal since my arrival and the flavours unlocked memories of meals gone by.

Wilma asked me about my morning and Brad told me about theirs, which was occupied by a Saturday ritual of grocery shopping and laundry. Brad and Wilma had only seen the changing of the guard once in all their time back in Korea, and I was surprised to learn that neither had ever been to the Bukchon Hanok Village.

“Why didn’t you come with me today?” I asked.

“All that walking up and down hills: not for me,” said Brad. I remembered when, in 1998, we had all gone to Cheju Island, and Tanya and I wanted to climb the mountain at the centre of the island. Brad wanted no part in the trek, and he and Wilma opted for a beach on the southern shore of the island, just to the west of Seogwip’o, the town where we were staying. It wasn’t until Tanya and I reached the summit of Halla Mountain that I learned, from Tanya, that Brad and Wilma had just started dating.

Over the following years, whenever Brad, Wilma, Fiona, and I met for vacations, Brad was never keen to climb any structures that involved a lot of stairs. “I admit, even I am starting to feel all the walking I’ve done,” I said. I looked at my watch, a Samsung Gear Fit, and checked my recorded steps. “More than twenty thousand, so far.”

“No thanks,” said Brad, who expertly picked up a piece of beef with his chopsticks and popped it into his mouth. “I’m happy to wander Jogyesa with you, after lunch, but then we’re taking a cab back to our place.”

Today was Buddha’s birthday, a deeply spiritual day across the country. All temples were lavishly decorated in paper lanterns and thousands upon thousands of devout worshippers flocked for prayers and songs. Food was given by the monks and spiritual leaders. In 1997 and 1998, I had made the journey to Kumsansa, one of the most-important temples near Chŏnju; today, I wanted to join in the festivities at one of Seoul’s key temples, Jogyesa, which was a short walk away, in Gyeonji-Dong.

We expected crowds and we weren’t disappointed. It was as though we were at a Pink Floyd concert, inching our way toward the stage. The overhead lanterns were pink, white, blue, yellow, and red. Tags hung from the bottom of many of the lanterns, and we could see people seated at several folding tables, writing out their names and warm wishes. Assistants in cherry pickers would carry the tag up to a vacant lantern, no doubt for a fee. Loudspeakers broadcast songs sung by a monk who was within the main temple and was accompanied by other monks who knocked on wooden blocks, all in synchronous rhythm. The front doors to the temple were opened wide, revealing three giant gold Buddha statues. Many people prayed around the five-hundred-year-old white pine in the crowded courtyard before the main structure.

Though it has gone through several names throughout its existence, Jogyesa is a principal temple for the seventeen-hundred-year-old Jogye Order of Buddhism. It has had its current name since only the mid-1950s. This was another first for me, today. Though I had walked past this temple, once, in 1998, today was my first time entering the grounds and I couldn’t think of a better time in which to visit.

The three of us drew attention from some of the older Koreans but most of the stares went to Wilma. She was as tall as Brad and had maintained her shapely figure from the time we first met. A couple of years ago, Wilma had applied blonde highlights to her light-brown hair, and this colour especially drew the attention of the dark-haired natives. The elderly women would try to reach out to touch it but Wilma was ready for this action and was able to deflect unwanted hands. Brad also played the role of bodyguard, as some hands would try to reach to places below the shoulders.

Despite the crowd, we were able to make our way throughout the courtyard and to the various structures and activities. Because we had already eaten, we declined any offers of food. And eventually, the heat from the mass of bodies convinced us that we had spent enough time paying our respects to Buddha, and we made our way to Ugeongguk-ro, where we were able to intercept a taxi as a couple emerged from the back seat, ready to join the crowds at the temple.

Wordless Wednesday: Beacons

Changes for 2021

Image via Google

Every so often, I take a look at the posts that I've published on The Brown Knowser and I evaluate whether I should continue writing similar posts, whether I should change other recurring posts, and if I should introduce something new or bring something back.

With that in mind, moving forward to 2021, I'm going to make some changes to my blog and bring some segments back.

Sometimes, I feel that posting only one photo for my Wordless Wednesday isn't enough, so I'm going to post more photos if I feel I have a subject that requires more than one. There have also been times where I have felt that some explanation around a photo needs explanation, or that I want to describe how I composed and captured a shot, so I'm also bringing back Photo Fridays.

However, I still want to continue with my Friday Fiction, so I'm going to alternate these posts or post whatever seems more appropriate for that week.

There are no rules in having a blog and I don't want to constrain myself.

I'm also toying with the idea of publishing blog posts from Tuesday to Friday. Often, I'm tired at the end of the weekend and am not in the mood to write anything on Sunday nights. But I might just write when I feel like writing, not worrying about when a blog post will appear on The Brown Knowser.

I'd also like to remind you that I welcome guest posts. In the nearly 10 years of The Brown Knowser, I have had only a handful of posts sent to me by friends and followers. Feel like contributing? Reach out to me!

The only thing that is constant is change, and my blog is no exception. I may change my mind about these changes, again, but I think that's what keeps a blog fresh, don't you think?

Winding Down 2020

Image via Google

The year is almost over. No doubt, 2020 will go down as one of the worst years ever. So much has been put on hold this year or cancelled altogether. And with the cold weather coming in, many will feel the frosty isolation more acutely.

I can't wait for the year to be done with. As of this coming Thursday, I'll be on vacation and won't have to think about work until the first week of the new year. In some ways, I won't even have to think about this blog, but in a way that signals relief over being tired of it.

Since I returned to The Brown Knowser, I've enjoyed writing and I hope you've enjoyed reading. But even though I've enjoyed providing mindless nonsense to you, I do need a break over the holidays, to spend time with my family, to focus on my fiction, and to rest my brain.

If you've been following this blog over the years, you're aware that I repeat some Christmas posts. They're lined up and ready to go. I've already prepared the remaining Wordless Wednesday posts for December, and my favourite photos of 2020 are ready to be revealed.

(Even this post was written last week.)

There will be days where I don't publish a blog post, and for me, that's okay. During the rest of this month, I can focus on recharging my batteries, and I'll hopefully come up with some posts that you'll enjoy.

Thanks for following The Brown Knowser, and I hope you have a safe and happy holiday.

Friday Fiction: Meet the Teachers

The following is a draft excerpt from my novel, Gyeosunim. If you haven't read my previous novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, be warned that while there are no spoilers, you may be missing some context.

Friday, February 27, 1998

I’m sure that I heard my alarm when it rang, at seven o’clock, but I didn’t actually respond to it until more than an hour later. Though my head felt heavy, seeing the actual time shook me awake and made me scramble. I had just over forty-five minutes to get to the university.

As quickly as I could, I showered and shaved, and threw on my black two-piece suit that I had had custom-tailored for me, in Pyeongtaek, not far from the Osan Air Base. Brad and I had travelled there, one weekend, to have our suits fitted, and returned the following weekend to pick up the suits. They were so well made by Lim’s Tailor Shop that we returned again, last fall, to have another suit made for each of us. That time, I had a lovely navy blue, pin-striped three-piece made.

With my suit I wore the crisp, white shirt that I brought with me, a year ago, and a multi-coloured silk tie that I picked up from Lim’s shop. I hurriedly shined up my black leather shoes and headed out to the main street to flag a taxi to the administrative building at Jeonju University, arriving with only five minutes to spare. Luckily, I had been to this building before, when I had provided information for my work visa, and so I knew exactly where to go.

In the administration office, the receptionist greeted me and then escorted me across the hall, to Director Cho’s office. In nearly flawless English, except for her Korean accent, she told me to take a seat and that Mr. Cho would be with us shortly. I saw a couple of other white teachers in the room, so I knew I was in the right place.

Now, all I had to do was stay awake until the meeting and orientation was over.

***

"When do you think it would be acceptable to leave?"

"I think we have to wait for Mr. Cho to leave." I looked over to our director, who was in an animated discussion with Choi Chul-won, the only Korean in the foreign-language department of Jeonju University. I had met Chul-won during my interview in December. He taught English grammar to our students, doing so in their native tongue. It was we western-English teachers who gave the students practical experience with the language.

It was hard to tell if the two men were ready to leave: their plates and bowls were empty, their cups of cha—tea—almost finished. Would they call for another pot or call it a day?

It was late in the afternoon and we were finishing a meal at a restaurant that was just down the road from the university and across from the Chŏnju Historical Museum.

There were four other teachers at today's meeting. I had expected more, but when I remembered that this meeting was an orientation session and a meet-and-greet with the foreign language department director, it made sense that the returning teachers would not be attending.

After gathering in Mr. Cho's office with the new teachers, we were plied with strawberries and handed our contracts to look over and sign. My fruit allergies prevented me from actually eating the luscious, oversized fruit but at least I could devour their fresh aroma.

Everything in the contract was exactly as it had been stated during the December interview, had been signed and stamped with a doh-jon, which made it official. Or, as official as a personal stamp could be. I still had the doh-jon that I had purchased at the Iri Cherry Blossom Festival, last spring, in Iksan, after my young students from the hagwon had given me my Korean name: Kim Mihn-Shik.

While there was no problem with my actual contract, there was an issue with my work visa. Or, more specifically, my lack of one. When I had agreed to work for Jeonju University, the administrator promised to post the E-2 paperwork to my Ottawa address. It wasn't waiting for me when I first arrived home and wasn't there when I returned to Ottawa from Scotland. Meeting with the administration department, after the strawberry feast with the director, I learned that although the paperwork had been prepared, it hadn't been sent in the mail.

A communication mixup, the administrative secretary had said. Typical Korean screwup, I told myself: the paperwork for my visa for my previous job, at Kwon's hagwon, had also been delayed so long that I had had to make a rushed trip from Ottawa to Toronto to get the forms processed in order to make the booked flight, which had already been delayed by several weeks. I had initially blamed the fiasco on Kwon's secretaries: now I was starting to think the administrative failures were cultural.

“Don't be so cynical, Roland.” Kristen was with me, looking longingly at the strawberries, her favourite fruit.

The problem was swiftly remedied. A flight was booked for Fukuoka, Japan, for Monday morning. Paid for by the university. I was told that if the Korean consulate wasn't busy, they could rush the paperwork through and have it ready in a matter of hours. If not, they would have it within 24 hours. The secretary who booked my flight told me that if I had to wait overnight, the university would reimburse me for hotel and dinner expenses. I only had to keep my receipts.

There seemed to be a good selection of English teachers among me. There was a married couple, Nelson Cathnelson and his wife, Cathy. Nelson's parents had a sense of humour in naming him, and that sense of humour obviously carried forward when Nelson chose his life partner. And Cathy further showed a sense of humour in taking her husband's surname. They were from Salt Lake City, Utah, and were quick to point out that they were not Mormons. No one in their families were. They seemed defensive, even though no one was saying anything. But they were kind, smiling, laughing. They were young, in their early twenties, and had only been married for a year. When they looked in each other's eyes, you could see that the honeymoon hadn't ended; indeed, might never end. They were enjoying their adventure together.

The other woman in our group was Françoise Dubé, from Dijon, France. Naturally, she was brought in to teach her native language. I would have been surprised that another language other than English was being taught in Korea, had this been my first time in the country and had I not met a Korean woman last summer, at the Internet café, who was studying French. When she saw me sitting at a workstation, deep in e-mail correspondence, wearing a shirt with CANADA stamped on it, she approached me and asked if I spoke French, knowing that Canada was a bilingual country. We soon learned that she spoke that language far better than I could.

Turning to my new colleague, proffering my hand, I said, "I'm Roland, nice to meet you."

"I'm engaged," were the first words to come out of her mouth, her hand seemingly reluctant to take mine in what wasn't so much as a shake as it was a brief touch. It was the oddest greeting I had ever faced. What had I said? Nothing in my words or gesture had indicated anything more than a simple "hello." Was she often accosted in France? Did she assume I was hitting on her? Only seconds before, I had greeted Nelson and Cathy in the same fashion. What was Françoise's story? Was she full of herself? Did she think that every man who approached her wanted her?

“She’s not your type, Roland,” said Kristen with a sly smile, “leave her alone.” She was having me on.

Physically, Françoise did nothing for me. She had a small frame; not an unattractive figure, but nothing that would make me take a second look. Her face was plain, her skin pale. The glasses that defined her hazel eyes typified a no-nonsense, prudish school teacher. Her brown hair was cut short in the back and was even shorter than my own. The style didn't appeal to me. Both Kristen and Tanya had had long, straight hair.

No, there was something in Françoise's prickly response that told me we were not going to be friends. Which was fine: my words to Siobhan echoed in my head—I'm not here to make friends.

The other gentleman in our party was Canadian named Russell Symes. When we shook hands and I told him that I was also from Canada, he was quick to ask, "Where in Canada?" It was the standard question that folks from the same country seemed to ask one another.

"Ottawa." My Scottish accent was buried, much as it had been last year when I taught my students, as it had been the first time I spoke to Linda Bryce, a woman who had been teaching at the hagwon when I was first considering working there. Our relationship was one that had gone from friendly to strictly professional, to one of animosity, and then, finally, hatred, contempt, and loathing.

"Same as me," said Russell, who then clarified, "sort of. I live about forty minutes away, in Fitzroy Harbour."

"I know the place," I said, "though I've never been."

"There's not much to see," he admitted. "It's sort of a bedroom community. Few shops—just a general store, a liquor store, and a small Home Hardware. If you want to do any real shopping or any recreational activity, you need to drive into Kanata." Kanata was a small city on the peripheral of Ottawa's west end, much like how Nepean bordered along the south.

Russell had previously been teaching at a small hagwon in Imje, a village between Chŏnju and Iksan, until the institute ran into economic troubles, much as had been the case with my hagwon and so many others. Russell had been teaching for only a couple of months; he had been fully paid but the sudden collapse had left him in a lurch. Luckily, a student's father was close friends with a professor at Jeonju University: a call was made and Russell was in.

"The university wants me to enroll in a Masters program," he said. "They feel my Masters in music isn't sufficient."

"I'm in the same boat," I said. "They told me that if I considered enrolling in a Masters program, they'd hire me right away. I told them at the interview that I would consider enrolling: I've considered it and I've decided not to."

"Have you told them?"

"Not yet. I thought I'd wait until the subject came up. Most importantly, I thought I'd wait until the contract was signed and I had my work visa in hand." When I had read over my contract, I scoured it for any mention of a Masters course as a requisite for my employment: thankfully, there was none, so my declination would not be a breach upon which I could be terminated.

"I've already paid for my first set of classes," said Russell. "I should have waited. I don't really want to take any courses. Did you know a Masters degree from here means nothing outside of Korea? It doesn't even count if you want to change universities within this country. And Jeonju University isn't exactly a prestigious institute; it's actually considered the last-chance U. If you can't get into any other university, this is where you try out of desperation. " If you are rejected, you may as well apply for a job as a garbage collector."

"Really?" asked Cathy, who overheard us. "I wonder what caliber of student we're getting."

"I've talked to one of the other teachers," continued Russell. "Raymond." I told him that I knew Raymond Close, had first met him on Cheju Island. "He says they're mostly good kids. They're either not the brightest or their parents aren't wealthy enough to put them in better schools."

"As long as they want to learn, I'm happy," said Cathy. She wore a perpetual smile, gave the impression of a person who was always optimistic, always looked at the bright side of a situation. The same went for Nelson. They seemed like naturally happy people.

Hopefully, Korea wasn't going to change that about them, wasn't going to spoil them and turn them into cynical pessimists. Like my first year had done to me.

This is a clean slate, Roland. New year, new attitude. Indeed, the university seemed much more stable, much more organized, save for the mixup with my work visa. It seemed a healthier environment, with a good staff and good teachers. “Take your experience with the culture and go into your new role with the confidence and positive attitude with which you used to approach life.” Again, Kristen's voice overrode my inner one.

Our day had been long. After the initial meeting in Mr. Cho's office, Chul-won took us to our office, where we picked out our desks. Russell and I chose to sit close to one another, as far back in the office from the front door as we could get. Only the two returning teachers, Ashley and Brian, and Chul-won sat further back. I insisted that Russell let me take the desk that faced the door, and he was happy to accommodate. He preferred the other desk that was tucked behind a row of lockers, where more privacy was given. I told him that I didn't like to have my back facing doors, that I hated being surprised. He said that he valued his privacy and that if a student only peeked inside the office, searching for him, he wouldn't be spotted unless the student actually entered, walked the twenty feet, passed beyond the lockers, and peered around the corner.

"Do you have something to hide from? A jilted lover?"

"No," he laughed. "If a student is serious about seeing me, he or she will come in. But if he or she is only looking for an opportunity to chat, not seeing me right away and seeing other teachers, might intimidate them into staying away."

"You don't like idle chat?"

He smiled, knowing that I was trying to trip him with our idle conversation. "Not from students, truth be told. When I'm not teaching, I like my solitude."

The day had gone smoothly, which suited my jet-lagged, sleep-deprived brain just fine. I remembered my first full day in Chŏnju, last year, when a former teacher from my hagwon, Jason, had given me a tour of the city. I couldn't have been in a bigger fog, could not have been less observant, had I been in a drunken stupor.

And I knew drunken stupors.

The preliminary meeting in our director's office had been quick. Mr. Cho explained that Jeonju Dae, as it was affectionately called, was celebrating its twentieth year as a university. Before then, since the early 1960s, the institution had held college status. The current campus was built in 1981 and was set to undergo further expansion over the next few years. The most-recent structure was the massive library and administration offices, in which we now sat. The imposing structure sat on a hillside and offered an impressive view of the south-western edge of Chŏnju. There were classrooms in the building as well: some of us would be using them, though most of our classes would be taught in the Foreign Language building, just down the hill and closest to this building. My interview had been conducted in the Foreign Language building: these were the two buildings that I would be using the most.

As part of the tour, Chul-won took led us to the classrooms where most of our lessons would be taught: rows of partitioned tables that would allow students privacy, where they could connect headsets into jacks in the walls, enabling them the ability to listen to recordings of spoken English as well as the ability to speak into microphones, the sound transmitted to the teacher's headset. Lessons could be individualized.

I also saw it as an effective means to keep students from cheating—cunning, as the Koreans called it—during written exams.

Chul-won took us to the Student Union Centre, where the stationery store, barber shop, cafeteria, and other student services were located. We were taken to a small, brightly lit office, where middle-aged women who never smiled operated industrial cameras for ID photos. We were instructed to pose as though we were having portraits taken for passports. Not only did students carry identification cards, but the teachers and faculty as well.

Back in the restaurant, the secretary who had accompanied the director to our late-afternoon lunch rose from the table, clutching an envelope that seemed to be holding a modest stack of won notes. "I think our tab is being paid," I said to Russell, watching as the young, pretty secretary walked to the cashier. "It shouldn't be long now. Mr. Cho looks like he's finished." Had he been ordering rounds of soju, a vodka-like drink that was distilled from rice, we might have been forced to remain. But our director didn’t seem to be about to get drunk with his new employees. Perhaps, another time, when his day was less formal. It was still early in the day, barely four o'clock, and I had the impression that he would be returning to the office.

Mr. Cho hadn't been with us since the initial meet and greet: after his brief hello and after all of our contracts had been distributed, our director assigned Chul-won to be our facilitator for the day. With our orientation wrapped up, Mr. Cho promised to take us to a restaurant. Chul-won spoke with a voice that was as expressionless as his face. Although his words were composed in a way to sound positive, they were delivered in a robotic tone, without emotion. It was impossible to discern whether he was happy to be fulfilling his assigned task and pleased with the new colleagues who would share his office space, or if he wanted to kill us all.

I would never want to play poker with him.

I was reminded of the poker game that Brad had taken me to, at a hagwon across from city hall, next to the pink-light district, where Chŏnju's brothels blended into the other low-income housing. I had only played with the other foreigners the one time: it seemed so long ago and I wondered if any of those folks remained in town. I had lost touch with many of them after Brad, Wilma, Tanya, and I had abandoned SE for Urban Bar. Where was Nigel, Colin, Sean, and Donna? Had they finished their contracts? Had their hagwons survived the economic downturn that crushed my former institute and so many like it?

Over the next couple of weeks, I would have to venture to the various bars that were popular to the waegukin to see which familiar faces were still standing.

In the afternoon, the new teachers were introduced to the dean of the Korean Cultural Studies department. A petit man with the physique of a teenager, Dr. Kim was in his late forties, though the lines in his face made him appear older. He was dressed in flared, black polyester slacks with a mustard-yellow shirt under a dark brown, corduroy blazer. Complete with longish, unkempt hair, Dr. Kim looked like he belonged in the 1970s.

Dr. Kim spoke in a kind, soft voice, his English only slightly accented, but perfect. He was an American-educated man, having lived in California for almost ten years. All of his students were required to take English-language classes, and so Dr. Kim spent many hours each week liaising with Chul-won and the foreign teachers. It was his responsibility to coordinate the marks that we assigned to our students and to ensure there was a balance between the grades of the students who juggled both departments.

"Your marks must fall within the same bell curve as mine," he told us. "Ten percent of our students are A-level achievers; fifty percent fall within a B; twenty percent are worthy of a C; fifteen percent will earn a D. Only five percent of our students shall fail." It was important that the students that lined up with our grades matched Dr. Kim's.

A student would automatically receive a failing grade, though, if he or she failed to take the mid-term or final exam, or if he or she missed more than five classes without a satisfactory excuse.

Dr. Kim took us, page by page, through our contracts, where our duties were outlined. Russell found one item in our contract and read it out loud to me: "Teachers are forbidden from having physical relations with the students."

"Makes perfect sense to me," I said. One of the teachers at my former hagwon had married one of Kwon's secretaries and took her with him when he returned to the United States. This angered Kwon to no end and he had made it clear to me that his other employees were off limits. No one would have dreamed of getting involved with a student, though one of mine, Mi-gyeong, had tried to start something with me.

"Yes," said Dr. Kim, who had overheard Russell. He spoke so that everyone could hear him. "No teacher may have a sexual relationship with a student unless he plans to marry her." His words seemed directed at Russell and me, the only single teachers in the room. He was putting this clause on the record.

Sitting in the restaurant, the day done, Dr. Cho finally rose from the table. Our meet-and-greet was over. We all stood and bowed to him, thanked him for the meal and for making us feel welcome. As he and the secretaries left the restaurant, Chul-won turned to us and said, "we can go. See you next week."

"I don't need to be told twice," I said to Russell, "I have a bed with my name on it."