Never Gonna Give You Up

Within the past six weeks, I’ve been stranded a week in Japan with no money (or rather, I had money, just no way to access it, which was even more frustrating); lost electricity in my apartment for almost a week following a lightning storm; was cornered by a would-be attacker; lost phone service for over a month because of ARC reasons; started a new job; lost a tooth; moved apartments twice; survived a typhoon (Ok, so I slept through the typhoon but it passed right through my area, smashing plate glass windows and uprooting large trees. I could have been crushed by one of those trees were I not such a sloth); and was kicked out of a restaurant for the sole offense of . . . drum roll . . . being white (the woman kicking me out actually called up someone on the phone to translate it for me). Do you know what all that means? It means I have the best diary ever!

I have to think back to my diary just a year or so ago. It was full of mundane observations, such as the time I saw the homeless man using his cardboard “Feed me” sign to shield his cell phone from public view as he texted on it.

Also, my previous diary contained more than one entry that related my daily commute from Ann Arbor to Ypsilanti as I rode my $10 mountain bike – “The Nevermind”— through all sorts of foul Michigan weather. Dripping down the hallway after one particularly bad rainstorm I simply told anyone who inquired about my sopping state that I’d jumped off the Titanic and swum there.

My diary from one year ago also chronicled interesting executive-type experiences, such as the time an overseas VIP was scheduled to visit our offices. Apparently, the VIP was a stickler for “tidiness” in the workplace, rumors claiming he’d fired people for sins such as keeping a disorderly supply closet. I was told to hide all my paperwork, folders, books, pens, pencils, stapler, calculator, calendar, and office phone (phone!?) deep within the confines of my desk drawers. I truly hoped the phone would not ring while hidden in the drawer, as that would have been embarrassing. As the arrival time for the sovereign VIP grew imminent, my boss and I discovered (to our horror!) that the company coat closet was full, so we crawled under our respective desks to hide our coats under our wastepaper baskets. So inspiring was the office-wide terror about the VIP's impending visit that had the wastepaper basket been large enough, I would have crawled under it myself.

Ok, so those diary events have a certain amount of retrospective amusement about them, but most of the entries inbetween them formed what can be loosely described as a foodie log focusing on the various types of chocolate I consumed on any given day and my reactions to it. (“Cinnamon chocolate. Mmm.” “Curry chocolate. Bleck!”) And more often than not, there weren’t even any written words, just greedy little fingerprints in cocoa smudging the pages, providing proof that I was still alive and also making it very easy to track me should I engage in any future criminal activity, such as, say, holding up a Godiva factory or hijacking a Little Debbie Truck.

A year and some weeks later, I now sit proudly at a brand-new cubicle! One where the phone is allowed on the desk, though my new workplace has kindly requested I not plug it in less it disturb people by ringing. Now is the time I was originally slated to leave for my RTW trip. I’ve worked in Korea and successfully finished my original one-year contract with “ivy league” Yonsei University, receiving the generous year-end bonus all Korean companies provide to their foreign employees. Now is the time when I should be loading up my rucksack and moving forward into the world.

After a series of unfortunate events, such as listed in the first paragraph, the average person would probably call quits on Korea and move forward as planned. Know what I call those people? Smart. They are smart, smart people who know when to give up. These people also probably understand that living more than one year in the world’s most precarious nuclear hotspot is, in fact, not smart. But that’s where I come in. These people have smart as their primary strength. Me, I have stubborn. Sure, the world may be filled with people who are smarter, stronger, and own more powerful weapons of mass destruction than me, but I have Olympic-level ability in stubbornness. And sure, the aforementioned series of unfortunate events may have driven me to the sort of desperate edge wherein a person in a position such as myself might shout, while on a public sidewalk, “You think you can beat me down, world? You think you can make me cry? Go on, try it!” (Such a public outburst worked to create a nice bit of space between me and everyone else nearby, which made for a refreshing change since Seoul is possibly the world’s most populated city and, generally speaking, there are at least three strangers in close bodily contact with me at all times – an intimacy which can double in number during subway rush hour!) Err, theoretically, I mean. All this is theoretical, except for the question asking the world if it thinks it can make me cry. That is a rhetorical question, by which I mean I would prefer the world not to answer.

Sure, I'm having a rough time right now, but this, too, will pass. And what’s more, in spite of everything, I still like Korea and I like my new job as a full-time editor. So, it’s one more year in Korea for me. One more year of doing the editing I enjoy all day and doing the dancing I love all night. One more year with the friends to whom I grow closer every time I see them. One more year eating fresh, delicious, cheap restaurant food. One more year replacing all the necessities of life with their cute counterparts. (Are the slots on your slotted spoon in the shape of a winky face? Is your toothbrush holder in the shape of a little piggy? Is your winter hat adorned with kitten ears?)

This has been a disasterous couple of months for me, true, but I'm not going to let it defeat me. I will rise up, every time.


(Exulting in Korea's adventures or readying myself to leap off the edge? Either way, wish me luck in exploring the infinite abyss.)

It Takes a Village to Get Me to Seoul

[Actual Date: July 17-July 25, 2009]

I travel by serendipity, interspersed by occasional bouts of panic when my very loosely assembled plans fall through. It was in such a manner that I journeyed to Seoul.

My initial itinerary was to go from my parents' house in mid-Ohio up to Sandusky, OH, where I would meet my friend David and three of his friends who were all going to Ann Arbor for the weekend. Once in Ann Arbor, I would stay with a couple of other friends, Matt and Angie. While in Ann Arbor, I was then to meet my friend Brian, who had tentative plans for being in town that weekend and then driving back to Chicago. I would return to Chicago with him and stay for the few days it would take until I completed my visa interview at the “nearest Korean embassy,” and then I would take a flight from there to Seoul. Easy, right?

Of course, the best laid plans are reputed to fall apart, and these weren't the best laid plans by any means, but merely an A to B to C to D itinerary I'd constructed within a few minutes. I managed to get to Ann Arbor and spent the weekend dancing and chatting with friends, but then became somewhat trapped there when my Chicagoan friend got called out of town by his work. I then was left without a ride to Chicago and without a place to stay. In addition to these handicaps, I also had in my possession a strong contender for entering the Guinness Book as the world's heaviest collection of suitcases. The second biggest one was so heavy that I could only move it by kicking it. In order to move my largest suitcase, which was monster-sized,* I resorted to staring dejectedly at the bag and then looking pointedly at the strongest of my male friends.

Before panic at my dilemma had completely overwhelmed me, I mentioned the situation to one of my Ohioan friends, Neil, who introduced me to Kristine, his girlfriend, who lives in Chicago. Kristine and her friend Emily included me in their carpool from Ann Arbor to Chicago. On that same Sunday morning, I made a phone call to my cousin D., who let me into her downtown apartment later that night and welcomed me to stay until my plane left Chicago six days later.

It is only with the greatest restraint that I refrain from using the adjectives wonderful, gracious, and amazing at every mention of all these people. I'm typing this blog entry on my desk in Seoul, where I arrived safely in large part due to the help and kindness of warm-hearted people and dear friends.



*comfortably fits a small to medium-sized ogre

How I Got Here

In October, I reached the half-way mark in my savings for a backpacking trip around the world. It was also in October that my favorite cat, Baci, was dying. He'd apparently been starving himself and his liver was severely damaged, but it wasn't until one Sunday night when he curled up next to me in a strange, almost-woozy manner that I noticed something was wrong. To rouse him, I poured some fresh cat food in his bowl. He wouldn't eat it. I scattered some treats in front of him, but he wouldn't eat those, either. When I broiled a salmon and placed it before him, he didn't even sniff the plate. He just laid his head in my lap and emitted a soft purr.


The vet confirmed my fears when I brought him to the animal hospital the following morning. Baci was taken from me and hooked up to several intravenous tubes for hydration and medicine. It wasn't good, the veterinarian told me. If he was still alive after a couple of days, they would need to perform an esophagostomy. It was an expensive operation that, given his current condition, would give him a 50% chance of survival. He would also need to remain in the hospital, with staff administering medicine and monitoring his health periodically through both the day and the night. There were also referrals to another pet clinic, in order to properly diagnose the underlying root of the starvation Baci had imposed on himself. All in all, it would cost 50% of the money I'd taken two years to save, and it would only give Baci a 50% chance of living through it.


For those of you who are wondering the magic it takes to save $10,000 in two years when working for a very modest salary, I am divulging my money-making secrets right here: I worked. Incessantly. My jobs were all low-paying, but I had a variety of them, sometimes working as many as three jobs simultaneously, which meant my typical work week (for the first year) was 60-80 hours. During the majority of that time period, my steady job was as an online editor of secret shopper surveys, which made it easy to incorporate a variety of alternate jobs into my schedule: scoring standardized tests, selling bookbinding supplies, directing cars and selling cooleroos at the Ann Arbor Art Fair, making beaded eyeglass holders at a rock shop, writing recommendation letters and college entrance essays for rich-but-dumb students, and finally, purchasing and negotiating for a leading automotive company. In addition to my heavy work load, I lived like a poor person. I didn't go to movie theaters. I didn't buy new clothes. I didn't eat out in restaurants. Instead of buying a car, I either walked or rode the bus. The last job I held was in a different city from where I lived. After riding the bus 45 minutes to the closest stop, there were still two miles left between me and company headquarters. I'd ride my bike, The Nevermind, or walk those last two miles. "What do you do when it rains?" a co-worker once asked. "I get wet," I replied, which served as both a punchline and the uncomfortable truth. After biking through one particularly vicious rain storm, I arrived at work so drenched and disheveled that I simply told people I'd swum over from the Titanic. Obviously, when so much hard work and sacrifice went into saving my money, it was not sensible for me to throw it away on a hopeless cause. And it wasn't just money, just savings in the bank; it was my dream. It was my ticket for traveling around the world.


When I adopted Baci from a rescue group, he was only a few weeks old and so tiny he fit in the palm of my hand. At night, I'd fall asleep with Baci at my feet, and in the morning, I'd wake up with him on my pillow. His idiosyncrasies included a predilection for keeping two catnip snakes, his favorite toys, in the food bowl. He was afraid of bubbles, the vacuum cleaner, and sometimes ants. Whenever I called for Baci, he came. Sometimes he ran eagerly; sometimes he slunk forward in a sulky manner, but he always came to me, perhaps not realizing that, as a cat, he could have ignored me and still met status quo. If I'd made a pros and cons list regarding whether or not to spend thousands of dollars on Baci, I could have come up with a dozen reasons to put my cat to sleep and save my money. Even if I spent everything on him, there was only a half chance he'd be saved. There was only one reason I had to sacrifice my dream: I loved him. “Do whatever it takes,” I told the veterinarian.


As a child, I was always trying to save creatures smaller than myself – birds that had fallen out of their nests, rabbits that had been ravaged by neighborhood cats, a Canadian goose that was drowning, a puppy running down a busy highway. My mother always tells the story of how, as a toddler, I tried to save a cartoon animal falling off a cliff by running up to the TV and holding my hands against the screen. I'd essentially been training for an animal nursing marathon since I was a child. Baci made it through the operation and stayed in the animal hospital a week longer, but he was still in danger. The only way he could receive nourishment and hydration was through his feeding tube and the administration of subcutaneous fluids. When I took him home, it was my job to feed him through the tube 6 times a day. Given the fact that my work and commute took about 10 hours of my day, and I needed to prepare the tubes before feeding Baci – puree and heat the food, fill the syringes and tap out the air bubbles – it meant I had to feed him roughly every 2 ½ hours throughout the evening and entire night. Then I'd leave for work early in the morning and work through the day. My life was spent as though in a delirium. I was never fully awake and never fully asleep. This lasted over two months. It also included uncertainty and the fear of losing him. I would leave the room and be afraid to return, afraid of the silence, afraid that if his body was still, it meant he was no longer breathing.


Whenever I fed Baci, I'd lift his emaciated body onto my lap and sing to him, sweet little nonsense songs. And I'd pray for him, more than I've ever prayed for anything. I asked anyone I came across to also pray for him. Every breath Baci took was a miracle, every mm of food his body accepted was a prayer answered. I explained my devotion to my cat by telling people I loved Baci like he was my child. But that wasn't it, not really. I didn't love Baci like a child or a best friend or a cat, though, at times, he filled all those positions. I simply loved him. I knew that, as far as he was capable, Baci would have done anything for me. I owed him no less.


By the first of January, an auspicious new start to the year, Baci ate entirely on his own. I stopped feeding him through the tube and almost a week later, the veterinarian removed it. Provided Baci takes daily medicine for his liver, the vet says he should now have the longevity of a normal cat. I feel blessed by this, and I've never regretted any of the sacrifices I'd made. But along with my joy at his recovery, a resigned melancholy set in place. I'd given up on my dreams. I no longer tried to scrimp and save my money for rtw travel because it no longer seemed possible. All I'd previously denied, I now gave to myself in spades. I bought clothing with Labels and wore them to movies, concerts, and out-of-town dances. I hung out with friends and didn't calculate the cost beforehand. In some ways, it was the Fabulous Life. In another way, though, I knew I was spending money because I felt defeated. I'd worked so hard for my money and denied myself so much pleasure, and nearly half of it was gone in less than a month.


My epiphany arrived at work one day in the form of the company secretary. I have the suspicion my colleagues at work, which was, in all fairness, an automotive company, gossiped among themselves as to why I refused to buy or lease a car. “I'm saving my money,” was the only reason I would laconically offer. “I know why you're saving your money,” J. told me one day, leaning across my desk in a conspiratorial manner. “You want to teach English abroad, right? You're saving up to move to Korea, where the teachers earn high salaries.” “No, that's not it,” I said. “I could do that right now if I wanted.” And then the heavens opened, a flock of doves descended, and a great, transcendent, incandescent light bulb lit directly above my head. “I can do that right now,” I repeated to myself in thought. And so, that's exactly what I'm doing. For the next year, I'll be experiencing the Korean lifestyle, food, and culture while saving the money necessary to continue traveling around the world.