Tonight, I left the security of my apartment in search of conversation and pastries. There just isn't any substitute to learning a language other than speaking it. I've just been too scared, not much different, really, than the way my students feel about speaking English. It isn't a matter of simply learning the words-- it's overcoming one's fear of sounding like a blithering idiot in public. Which, frankly, I do. But even so, my brain overwhelmed by masses of meaningless jumbles of mispronounced and misheard syllables, I managed--manage-- to sift through the other person's words and remove a word or phrase, here and there, like a Jenga puzzle piece, the same uncontrollable rush of joy at success, and I respond with an answer which the person understands.
I walked, nowhere in particular, just down the street. I stopped into my favorite bakery, "favorite," in this context referring only to the fact that it was most convenient, all Korean bakeries keeping the same stock of honey cakes, sponge cakes, sugared garlic bread, red bean pastries, and ambigously chocolate delicacies. I attempted to strike up conversation, but got little more than, "How much is this?" Still, I was not to be discouraged.
I next tried a magazine, er, convenience store, again with disappointing results, despite my giving in and reaching for my phrasebook. My stop at the cell phone store gave me much the same results. I was weakened, but resilient. The search continued.
Walking down the street, again aimlessly, I more or less stumbled into a Korean man who I drew, rather firmly, into conversation. The majority of our conversation consisted of stumbling blocks, but I did isolate his request for my age, to which I responded with my American age...he then made some comment about what my age would be in Korean terms, and we parted ways just about that time. My ecstasy at being understood overwhelmed my senses.
I found myself, the phrase being more than usually appropriate as I had no particular destination, and only half conciously became aware that I had stopped, at a rather dark spot of town, a police station across the street. A middle aged couple, and a younger mannish woman, too old, I felt, to be their daughter, sat at a cart eating watermelon. I had a vague plan to pretend I was lost to the policemen, but they saw me looking, probably too intently, at my phrasebook and asked me where I was going. I engaged in conversation with him, told him I was a teacher, that I taught young kids. When the man asked me if I was American, I told him, yes, I was from Las Vegas. He misheard, thought I said "Alaska." That touched me, reminded me of the twins back home, how old were they...? Three? Four? I had Kelsie on the phone. I told her I was going to Moscow, and she, in her four year old wisdom, thought I said "Costco." What was the discussion I had with my friend's friend's son, about wearing his father's shoes? He was so happy I spoke Russian to him, and he looked so ridiculous in those shoes, but so proud at the same time-- and I am distracted.
He offered me a ride home on his motorbike, told his wife, in Korean, that he'd be back in five minutes, it seemed safe enough. I accepted. I don't know how he interpreted the streets between the cart and the E-Mart where I told him to drop me off. I do know that I've never gone from Point A to Point B before in such a way as to incoporate Points C thru Z as well. He must've talked to a half dozen friends, which I desperately tried to catch the gist of and failed.
Now I'm home, typing this, and glancing down at my cat, curled up on my laptop case, sleeping in the light manner that cats have perfected, and chatting with friends in Korea.
I must buy a watermelon soon.
Night.
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