Letting The Days Go By

In about the same amount of time it takes to drive to L.A. and back from San Francisco (but, really, who wants to do that anymore?), you can fly to Korea.

I did this. Korea, I mean.

This is only my third time out of the country, but it's the first time I've ever needed a passport to get to where I'm going, so I don't really count the few days I spent in Mexico, or the few hours I spent in Canada (where my mother, newly pregnant with my sister and extremely sick, marched my father and I right back to California, our VW bus wheezing and threatening to blow all the way home) as "leaving the country."

Are Canada and Mexico different countries than the United States? INS assumes they are, but I'm not so sure.

The opportunity to teach English in South Korea came at a very, shall we say, "interesting" time in my life. A year-long relationship had ended quite suddenly and painfully through no fault of my own. Also, I was finding less and less work as a substitute teacher in San Francisco, and finding this temporary work less and less satisfying. One Sunday morning, I opened the paper, saw five different ads for Korean schools and, with no real love, no real job, and no really great apartment to try to hang onto, I cried, "Havoc!" and let loose the dogs of war.

Maybe I damned the torpedoes and full sped ahead. Something like that.

I started hinting to a few close friends that I might be going to Korea for a year to teach. They were all so supportive and enthusiastic it made me nervous. Hey you guys! I wanted to shout, I'll be gone for a whole year! I'll have to get rid of most of my stuff! For God's sake, talk me outta this thing! Instead, they said things like, "Wow, what a great opportunity," and, "You should do this," and, "We'll miss you a bunch."

Damn them anyway.

I sent off my resume to three different schools, not knowing that one of them would want me as soon as I could conceivably hop a plane to get over there. I was surprised, and a little wary. A school in Korea wanted me. As soon as possible.

I still had no passport yet. Steve Choi, my contact (how espionage- and Cold War-like that sounded: "my contact"), assured me that they still wanted me, and directed me to the Korean Consulate on Clay Street, to have them certify a copy of my Bachelor's degree (only the second time an employer has ever wanted to see my degree, might I add). I did so, sent it to Korea, and waited for my passport.

Actually, I wasn't waiting for my passport. I was waiting for a copy of my birth certificate to be mailed to me, so that I could then go and apply for my very first passport.

I went ahead and signed my contract with the school, still without my passport's assurance of the USA's blessing if ever I left this beautiful country o' mine.

I had a huge garage sale and sold an extremely large portion of my stuff to friends and strangers alike, still with no passport. No visa and no plane ticket, either.

I sent out invitations to my going-away party (hosted by my former girlfriend. Don't ask.), still with nothing that would indicate my imminent departure.

"When are you leaving?" "I don't know yet," went most of my conversations at that point. Everything was hinging on everything else. My school wouldn't buy my plane ticket until I got my work visa. I couldn't get my work visa until I got my passport. I couldn't get my passport until I got my birth certificate. I already had a signed contract. I already had given my landlord 30 days notice. I was beginning to get nervous. What could I do? What should I do?

I waited. Not for long, it turned out.

In one 24-hour period I received my birth certificate and got my passport.

The next week I got my letter of intent to hire from Korea and my work visa.

That Friday, the mail brought my ticket. My plane would leave in 48 hours.

Friday I finished packing. Saturday morning, my parents and I boxed the rest of my junk to store at their house. Saturday night was my going-away party. Sunday I left the United States.

Fifteen hours later, suffering jet lag and wide awake at 2am, I was lying in a small hotel, or yogwan, in Pusan, South Korea, asking myself exactly what David Byrne had said I may ask myself:

"How did I get here?"