Be Gentle, It's My First Time

I have never written a column before. Let's get that out of the way right now. Haven't even thought of newspaper writing since my 7th grade journalism class, when I was the world's biggest "Kolchak: The Night Stalker" fan, and imagined myself as the intrepid, sarcastic reporter, running down leads by day, staking vampires by night.

But I'm all grown up now.

A lesser man than I might even imply that I have no idea what the hell I'm doing, writing this column. Not me, no way. I will simply repeat that I ain't never done this before, and hope you'll forgive the occasional lapses, both in taste and readable prose. I have been known to have very little in the way of boundaries, and, occasionally, I'm sure, I will stride boldly and ignorantly across the line that is presumed to be drawn in the sand between you and me.

I'm apologizing in advance (in as round-a-bout way as possible, you may have noted) for frightening the horses. I'm bound to do it sooner or later, so you have my humblest "Sorry 'bout that" ahead of time.

For the first time in my 32 years, I have left the States and I am living and teaching in South Korea; I'll be here until April of next year. The column will generally be a continuing travelogue of my experiences here; more than lifely, however, it'll meander into all sorts of topics, not the least of which is how the USA looks from the other side of the Pacific.

The name of this column is a joke. And not a joke.

It's a well-known stereotype (one with, perhaps, more than a smidgin of truth attached) that we Americans have a nasty habit of returning from another country saying things like, "Can you believe nobody speaks English over there?" or, "I couldn't even find a decent hamburger."

I knew when I first considered living abroad that I was safely immune from such churlish thoughts. For I, ta-da, was a sensitive man of the 90's, from San Francisco no less--one of, if not the most cosmopolitan of metropolii.

I even have my ears pierced.

Surely I would not stoop to such barbaric thoughts. Surely I would not be so Neanderthalic. Surely I would not be an Ugly American.

Surely.

Well, that lasted until my 2nd day here, when I began to look for a taqueria and got pissed off that nobody had opened one yet.

As the days turned to weeks, and I began to do and say and see and feel more things, I began to see how so many of these thoughts, feelings, and experiences could easily become grist for the stereotypical mill, as it were.

The Ugly American.

I am it and it is I.

I cannot promise that this column will always be 100% accurate. I have no fact-checker over here, and I may see things one way, while somebody else would see them another way entirely. I cannot promise that I will not write something that sounds totally sarcastic or ignorant or sinine or sexist or racist. And I certainly can't promise that everything in this column will be exciting, or even interesting.

The one thing I can promise is honesty.

Everything I write, everything you read here will be completely honest. I'll spare no detail: what I see, what I do, what I feel, what I think. My heart is permanently attached to my sleeve, and I'm sure it'll leak onto this column more times than I care to guess at.

I'm not really concerned about sounding sarcastic or stupid or sexist or racist (SEE PREVIOUS APOLOGY). I am much more interested and concerned with letting you know exactly how it feels to be all by yourself in a foreign country, for the first time in your entire life.

A stranger in a strange land.

An Ugly American.