Sunday Night At the Beginning of the End

Why can't I stop eating? Inhaling food at an alarming rate I can see my fabulous Seoul skinnyness melt away piece by piece. This is the price that must be paid for being able to fit into my bras again. This is a sign I'm not depressed anymore. Let me rephrase that. It's a sign I'm no longer in that thick, endless abyss that made me such an arrogant sufferer - you know, the only one on earth in that kind of pain etc etc. Depression...comes in many shapes and sizes?

Yesterday I got a glimpse of what life with my kids would be like if were weren't caged in by windowless plaster and peeling, foamy, wood-patterned flooring and roles of wallpaper to make it look like they cared about the sky and those pastel. plastic. tables. They were fun and excited and affectionate. They could run when they wanted, they could be outside. Children need to be outside. The British School had a rule that everyone had to go outside during recess unless they had a doctor's note or it was raining. We hated it, and concocted various way to evade the teachers on duty and hide inside. But it made all the difference, when I see these poor kids, stir crazy and confused...you know, technically there are windows in all of the classrooms at the school. They're all papered over, our white boards stacked, hung or nailed over them.

Apparently, in Korea, windows are a distraction to young children.

Anyway, out and about, my children were transformed. I had been afraid this graduation field trip would be ten hours of squirming under the scrutiny of parents (who were all invited to tag along). But I barely interacted with them. None of them speak any English, and aside from some smiles and a few snatched photo ops, Beka and I were left to our own devices. We went to a noodle museum where we helped make and then eat a delicious cold noodle dish. Then a stroll around a picturesque dam with a sidewalk dotted by street food shacks where the father of one of my boys insisted on buying us a bag of deep fried minnows (scooped out from their fishtank and dropped into boiling oil right there in front of us) and an entire bottle of makkali - rice liquor.

At lunch we had dak galbi - a dish Chuncheon is famous for. We took off our shoes and nested into the floor around several circular tables, the dish already mostly cooked and steaming. The men all sat at the middle table with our boss, the women sat with the children, and Beka and I sat with the boss's wife, his son and Hee Kyung, our school's awesome odd-jobs helping hand. This all happened extremely fluidly. The men whipped out the alcohol faster than I could fold my legs in my tight jeans under the table. I marvel at these cultural differences, even as I walk away from them.

The end is near. And I wanted it to pass clear of cringes, clear of regrets. Turns out I'm not so good at avoiding those. I'll just hide in my kids until my escape route is clear. A 5'6 white girl with curly hair and curves? Crowds of 6 year old Korean children are the perfect place to disappear.