click here to see your future

There they are: my new co-workers, or at least the first four to get their biographies submitted (I'm in the ranks - whew! must not be too behind). The program organizers have started to populate the teachers' Web site with pictures and bios, and it's a strange sensation looking over those unfamiliar faces.

I have to admit that they're a little scary ... these world-traveling academics. Not quite sure how I fit in the ranks - just hoping that the slackers' profiles (17 more to come, I think) won't be nearly so impressive. :)

stamps and hand cramps

The world's roads are lined in paper.

I am in the middle of killing a small forest to convince my country, my host country, two sets of employers, my grad school, my bank and my property managers that no, I am not an drug dealer or communist spy, and yes, my plan is a flawless one. The first bits I'm fairly certain on, at least.

Hollywood keeps promising an era where one iris scan and a few keystrokes will give you access to anywhere you're authorized, but I'm telling ya, people, we are far from that day. This is still a world of fuzzy faxes and nonstandard passport photos. Oh well, at least the countries I'm dealing with this time have straightforward procedures, if not exactly simple ones. And if something goes wrong, I suppose I could always try that whole "look into my eyes" thing at customs.

And then there's the decidedly disconcerting feeling of signing your life away on papers that look like a muddy-footed robin tromped on them. Don't worry - the hangul (Korean script) is only in logos or accompanied by English translations - but it's still downright bizarre to think this garbledy-gook actually means something. The first time someone sent me an e-mail with hangul terms, I burst out laughing. It was as if someone had said, quite earnestly, "Oh you have to try awjvoeksoflkf... and the poekjvoek is really great but skip the slkdfov ... oh and don't miss the fjowebvo with lots of rejobiejof." Except weirder, because they're symbols that I can't even sound out yet, so they don't seem like words at all. (One of the actual quotes: "I want to recommend that you have to have korea food such as 삽겹살, 불고 기, 김치, 비빔밥.")

Anyway, the journey of a thousand miles begins with one dead tree, so I better get back to it.

one ticket to Korea, please

*Note: This was a post I wrote before leaving but never quite got around to hitting the "Publish" button ... anyway, here it is months later, but in its chronological spot.

Sometimes when I say I'm moving to Korea, people look at me like a two-headed calf at a Kansas roadside attraction. Sometimes I get the cocked head and skeptical "Why?"
Now to be fair, most raised eyebrows at this statement accompany huge smiles and enthusiastic exclamations. But to those few who just can't understand why the heck a perfectly nice gal on the verge of old-maid-hood would pick up and put off any sense of permanent community to anonymously wonder a strange land ... I'm with ya. At least some days.

Some days I think I'm freaking crazy to leave this great place and the wonderful people here. I wonder how much I'll mourn my space, my in-house washing machine; I already dread the incomprehensible grocery trips and mystery cafeteria food. Some days it hits me how absolutely little I know about what I'm getting myself into. I have no doubt that in my sweeping schemes of adventure, I'm just a stupid rich American bound to spread my ignorance worldwide and chronicle the ordeal in oblivious, self-important anecdotes.

But today, like most days, is not one of those. Today I'm tired of watching life tick by in section deadlines, and I say bring it on. I've worked years to establish a resume and stable finances, and it's time to face down a little mystery. Today I'm scared I'll wake up tomorrow 20 years older and none the wiser, paralyzed by inertia.

Blame my friends - the ones who send me stories of Baghdad children, Peruvian ruins, Alaskan fishermen, Mexican tennis teachers, Chinese junk ships and Vietnamese old women. Blame my family, who started feeding me romantic tales of life abroad about the same time as hard foods. Blame the fool-headed books I read. Blame naive me, who couldn't quite get the travel itch entirely knocked out by a rough scrub in Europe.

Am I a fool? Unquestionably. But hopefully I'll be one who knows what kind of fool I am.