A Tale of Two Cities

I've been doing a lot of thinking this week. Last week's rant on stupidity drew some interesting comments, and I was particularly struck by Diana's comment on my being too hard on Alberta. I'll admit that it did strike me at the time that I should balance it with tales of Montreal's stupidities, but it is hard to top an example like re-electing Ralph Klein again and again and again. At the same rate, Montreal has it's fair share of head spinning idiocies. And all this got me thinking, once again, about Canadian identity. I'm a confused Canadian. Where is home? I've called Montreal home as many times as I've called Calgary home. But before we get to that, I feel that I should introduce these two cities. Montreal and Calgary are so very different, and I love them both in different ways. It's time the two cities met once and for all to examine their differences, and perhaps even their similarities...

Round 1: River

Calgary- Downtown from the Stampede Grounds
Montreal, meet Calgary. The Calgary Tower was once the tallest free standing structure in the world, but then Toronto heard that Calgary had something they didn't. The CN tower went up soon after. Although they call this body of water the Bow River, Calgary, it is time you learnt that it should in fact be called a stream.

Old Montreal from somewhere in the middle of the St Laurence River
Calgary, meet Montreal. The silver topped roof is the Marche Bonsecours, that dates way back to the days of the fur trade. This Calgary, is a river. Complete with some kind of tug boat looking thing in the St Laurent.

Round 2: Mountain

Lake Louise, Alberta
Montreal, I would like to introduce you to mountains. I'm sorry to inform you that Mount Royal does not count, and a t-bar does not a mountain make. As a general rule, if you can take a bus to the top, it is not a mountain.

Montreal- The famous cross on Mount Royal
Calgary, it is clear you don't have a cross at the top of your mountain lit up with thousands of little light bulbs. And even if you did, would it glow purple when the pope died? No, no it wouldn't.

Round 3: Cultural Events

Calgary Stampede- "The Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth"
I was never big on the Stampede, or not on the cowboy events anyway. The best thing about the Stampede is that business slows to a crawl for ten days. Offices don't expect too much work to get done, because most of those days are spent drinking. And eating those little donuts... mmm... those little donuts... The best part of Stampede week is trying to scam as many free breakfasts as you can.

Montreal 's Annual Jazz Fest
Where else in Canada can an unemployed, broke student be entertained for two straight weeks by over 500 free shows from all over the world?

Round 4: Seasons

Calgary -Chinook Arch
Topping the list of things I miss most about Calgary. Chinooks - which are responsible for the occasional 20c day in February. And seeing the sunset over the mountains, not the Ville Marie expressway.

Montreal- Tire d'erable
Given the fact that Montreal is plunged into freezing cold for six months of the year, they have been forced to find ways to enjoy it. The best part about winter are the trips to the Cabane a Sucre- where you're stuffed full of fattening foods and then finish it all off with the tire d'erable. Boiling maple syrup is poured over snow, and you roll it onto a stick and make a big sucker. Mmmm... tire d'erable....

Round 5: Drive-Ins

Calgary- Peter's Drive-In
Number 1 destination for Calgarian teenagers skipping school. Mmmm... Peter's... located conveniently close to the old drive-in.

Montreal- Orange Julep
Peter's might win for best burger, but the Julep wins for architecture- doesn't everyone want to eat at a giant orange?

Round 6: Hockey

Calgary: The Red Mile
As the 2004 hockey season drew to a close, Calgarians flooded 17th Ave SW in an effort to show the country that they didn't always leave downtown after 5pm. The Flames made it to the semi-finals, which as far as I can remember had not happened since they won the Stanley Cup in 1989.

Montreal: Richard Riots
Montrealers are passionate about hockey. So passionate that riots have insued in the streets of Montreal for wins, loses, and even discipline of players. The 1955 hockey season saw the rise of tensions involving the suspension of Rocket Richard. Though Montrealers fill the streets excitedly after wins, there has not been much cause to celebrate their success since 1993.

Round 7: Licence Plate

Alberta licence plate
I'm sure wild roses are beautiful, but I don't think roses when I think Alberta. Perhaps they should try Rat-Free Country instead. Or Move Here and We'll Send You Cheques!

Quebec licence plate
Ask ten people from Quebec what 'Je me souviens' refers to, and they'll all give you a different answer. I recently read that it is part of a French poem that begins, Je me souviens, que ne sous le lys, je crois sous la rose (I remember, born under the lily, raised under the rose).

Round 8: Premier vs Premier Ministre

Albertan Premier Ralph Klein
Stupid is as stupid does. Charming, isn't he?

Premier Ministre du Quebec- Jean Charest
Coincidentally, there is no French word for Premier, so Jean Charest is the Prime Minister of Quebec. I expect Jean Charest will be not remembered for leading the Liberals to a victory in Quebec for the first time in nearly thirty years. Instead, he will be remembered as the man who ensured it would be another thirty years before they were re-elected. And for driving a record number of Anglophones to vote for the coke-head running the Parti Quebecois. Among his ever-so well thought out changes, he cut 100 million dollars from the student loans and bursaries program- an act which led to student strikes across the province.

Round 9: Beer

Calgary- Big Rock & Molson Canadian
Beer is an important part of any Canadian province. My memories of Big Rock products are a little hazy, but at least you can buy Canadian beer in Alberta.

Quebec: Boreale & Molson Export
Mmm... Boreale Doree... I wonder what my chances are of finding Boreale Doree in Korea? I guess the Molson family didn't want to provoke anyone, so Canadian beer is widely referred to as Export in Quebec, and that's just no good.

Round 10: Relaxation

Kananaskis Country, Alberta
Winter, spring, summer or fall Calgarians head out to the mountains to rest on week-ends. Personally, I'm not so into the winter camping, but there's nothing better than snowboarding in a t-shirt during a chinook.

Montreal- Sunday Tam-tams
Out with the old and in with the new. Montrealers used to flock to Churches on Sundays, but now young and old, English and French, drunk and sober- everyone meets at the base of the mountain to relax, dance, play football and listen to the drums.

That's it for introductions. Montreal has met Calgary, and Calgary has met Montreal. I have recently been accused of being hard on Alberta, but let's face it- Alberta can take it. I moved to Calgary at nine years old, and have few memories of Grande Prairie (5 hours north of Edmonton). As I remember it, my brothers and I experienced culture shock in moving to the big city. Our first trip to South Center was one I'll never forget. My brothers, never having seen as escalator before, thought it was part of an amusement park and spent a good half hour riding it up and down. In Calgary, everything seemed so far away, and I wondered why trips to the doctor no longer included West Edmonton Mall. When we'd lived in Grande Prairie, we would have to make the trip to Edmonton to see specialists, which happened often enough with my bad feet and Tyler's epilepsy. But when we moved to Calgary, the trips to Edmonton came to a sudden stop. Calgary had swimming pools with waves and a Stampede that my parents never really got into, and thus neither did I. Up until I was fourteen, my Calgary was restricted to the SW. Everything I needed to do and all the people I knew could be visited without venturing across the river to the North. I had heard tales of horrible drug busts, murders and muggings in the NE. At fifteen, when I started high school at Bishop Carroll, my Calgary was forced to include some of these far off areas. I suddenly had friends who lived in Bowness and Forest Lawn. I soon discovered downtown Calgary, which had largely been a mystery until that year. I soon became an expert on all things downtown, a natural meeting place when your friends are scattered across a sprawling city. I discovered the little shops of Stephen Avenue, the cafes of Kensington and the diversity of 17th Ave. I enjoyed discovering Calgary, but quickly enough, things would start to get to me. My friends and I soon realized that Calgary Transit sucked. And it still does. None of us had ridiculously early curfews, but Calgary Transit did it's part to impose one on us. I wanted a car, needed a car- and it was the first sign of frustrations to come. My first apartment was close to my parents houses, in the relative safety of SW Calgary. I had signed the lease for the first apartment I saw, fearful of this housing crises I had heard so much about. After that year, I moved downtown and I loved it. I felt at home. There was nowhere I couldn't rollerblade and I didn't need a bus pass. By this time, I had been scooping popcorn under the alias of Phelixx for over a year (an alias acquired both to maintain my sanity and to provoke my boss who was forever subject to my rants about the inhumanity of being forced to wear a name tag). I was living with two IMAXers + one of their boyfriend's, + one of my creepy ex-boyfriends, and all was well for a time. Then things changed. Things became heated with my roomates, even disturbing if you will. Proof of their sexual escapades was evident throughout the house. The house swayed ever so slightly at night, accompanied by loud banging noises from above. The bathroom we shared played host to mysteries I wished I had never discovered. Our arrangement lasted one month and soon one IMAXer + boyfriend moved out of the house, and they were replaced by one 'Rageful Scott'. Suddenly it seemed we had an open door policy at the house, and people began to approach me at the bar, asking if they lived with me. And usually they did. In any case, I was well established downtown at this point and I had started hanging out with the infamous Rob. So Rob and I got an apartment and moved in together- downtown of course. We had our spots- the Night Gallery, Vicious Circle and VanGogh's among the favourites. I left Calgary shortly there after, and when I go back, things just aren't the same. Maybe this is why I feel some resentment towards Calgary. The Night Gallery, the Republik, VanGogh's, the Loose Moose Theatre, even the IMAX have shut down. For me, Calgary is not Calgary without the Night Gallery. And of course, we've gotten older. People have moved away, gotten married, had kids. But my Calgary just isn't the same. I feel out of place when I'm back. A city I knew so well has changed so much. Highways have been moved, new train stations built. Communities I've never heard of have sprung up on what used to be the outskirts of the city, but now seems relatively close to downtown. Aspen Estates, Cougar Ridge, Clear Water Point- these are not part of my Calgary. The train line for my Calgary only goes as far south as Anderson and as far north as Brentwood. Though Dalhousie exists in my Calgary, there is no train station there. I resent the fact that Calgary has grown and changed so much. I wonder what right it has. I've met two people here in Korea who had recently lived in Calgary, and both of them lived in communities I had never heard of. This is not my Calgary. It's hard to feel at home in a city that has shut down everything you loved about it. But it goes deeper than the infrastruture, it affects the way we think and the way we live. But I'll get to that.

In order for me to see how Calgary no longer fit, I needed some distance. Montreal to Calgary was a pretty safe distance, so there I went. And again, within my own country, I experienced culture shock. I spoke the language and I had visited Montreal before, but this was different. Everything was different. There was an air to the city that I had never felt in a western Canadian city. Being the sort of person who strives to keep her life as difficult as possible, this move was no exception. I arrived in Montreal and began acting in a show at the Fringe Festival. I had it all planned out. I was living with the producer of the show, who I had met during my time at the University of Calgary. I was staying on his couch, and would sublet his room for the summer when he went to Ireland the following week. But of course, it didn't unfold this way. There was a very complicated falling out when his craziness got us booted from the festival and the entire cast blacklisted. The Montreal Gazette covered the story with great interest and soon I received an email from my friend Kenny informing me that a google search of my name had turned up some interesting material. Crazy man had taken the show to the internet and had set up sites slandering his actors for not supporting his insanities. He emailed my professors at Concordia to warn them about me. He began stalking us. By my third day in Montreal, I moved in with the director of the show, who I had known only three days. I failed to put my parents' minds at ease when I called them both asking for legal advise, less than a week into my stay in Montreal. The follow-up on their advise was even more shocking. As I placed the first of many calls to the Montreal police, the receptionist asked me what my call was concerning. I started to explain, but she interrupted and said, "Car Stories? Ooooh, hold the line." They had dedicated an officer to dealing with the Car Stories ordeal. To make a long story a little shorter, I had a quick and painful introduction to Montreal and the theatre community. I pressed on, if for no other reason than the fact that I was broke and couldn't afford a plane ticket home. I was applying for jobs, but having trouble securing one. On my resume, I had indicated that I had worked in Calgary, and without fail, I would see people cast aside my resume after asking me about my time in Calgary. Though I had just completed the interview in French without a problem, I was being told that if I was from Calgary it was impossible I would speak French well enough to work in Montreal. So I experimented. The name on my resume was altered to Stephanie Bogue and all references to Calgary were removed. Lone behold, I got the first job I applied for. But there were other issues. As bad as the housing crisis was (and continues to be) in Calgary, it's still nothing compared to trying to find an apartment after Moving Day. To be fair, I had been warned about this Montreal phenomenon, but it was simply the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard and I refused to believe it was true. Having now experience four Moving Days, I assure you- the tradition lives on. After weeks of calling and having no luck finding an apartment, I finally had the chance to see one in St-Henri. The landlord was in the middle of renovations (renovations that would never be completed), but I had no choice. I was starting school in five days and had nowhere to live. I spent the better part of this year argueing with the landlord, who had removed the bathroom sink and took two months to put it back. He also felt that doors were superfluous and had removed most of them with little consideration for the fact I was living with two men. The time I wasn't spending fighting my landlord, I was is the student loans centre. Both Concordia and the Quebec Government are infamous for their love of red tape, so you can just imagine the combination of the two of them. It was a nightmare. At last the school year ended and I took to the streets to find a job. And had horrible luck at it that summer. But all was not lost, I had taken on two new roomates, Fajer and Lucas, both actors at Concordia, and it was looking like it would be an interesting year. A few weeks following my first Moving Day experience, Fajer introduced me to Fred. I still haven't forgiven him. Montreal changed for me after that. I had people to lean on and help me out. Fred stood by me and helped me out at every turn. Fajer and Lucas helped out as well- listening to my rants and feeding me. Were it not for the three of them, it would have been another year of 99 cent pizza.

My introduction to the two cities was as different as they are and says alot about each of them. With the economic boom in Alberta, I had never wanted for a job. I thought it was the same anywhere. The idea of struggling to find a job was so foreign to me, I was in complete shock when I arrived in Montreal. But it's easier to be a broke and struggling student in Montreal. You can walk everywhere you need to go. There are resources set up at the University to help you. Many people are in the same situation as you. In Calgary it's hard to struggle. You are surrounded by money- it oozes out from all around you and many have lost touch with what it means to have it, or not to have it. Because rent is still quite expensive in Calgary and a car is a necessity, not a luxury, many of my friends stayed at home until they completed their University, or after. Nothing wrong with that, of course- and sometimes I wonder if I would have done the same had I seen the road that lay ahead. But University is a different experience if you're not worried about making 20$ last two weeks. Or wondering when and if your student loans will come through. Most students in Montreal have come from other parts of the country, or the world. Few students live at home during their education, so many understand money troubles. Concordia provides a hot free vegan lunch every day, for anyone who shows up. The student centre provides emergency loans on a regular basis. These services are necessary in Montreal, but unheard of in Calgary. Because students in Calgary stay at home for school, they graduate largely debt-free. Tuition is not the expensive part, really- it's the living expenses. And so Calgarians get a bit of a head start- graduate debt free, save some money and then buy a condo, or a car. Montrealers graduate and get a break for six months before they start paying back their students loans. I wouldn't trade the experiences I've had and the things that I've learned, but it is difficult all the same. There is nothing that makes you feel as though you're losing the money game like a trip to Calgary. The issue of money is a big one, but again, it goes deeper than that. Values. Montreal used to be the business centre of Canada. It was home to many head offices and all was well. But along came the infamous Bill 101, and things changed. Business left, people left and now Montreal's biggest industries are the sex trade and telemarketing. It's easy to shake your head and wonder why they would make such a sacrifice, but I think it's admirable. Culture over cash. Montreal has culture, and Calgary has cash. Montreal could have had the cash, but didn't want to lose it's culture. It had different values. Complain as we might about the state of affairs in Montreal, fact is it wouldn't be such a great city without the culture. That's what makes it Montreal. Calgary is still such a young city. Perhaps in years to come values will be examined and things will eventually change. Calgary is a beautiful city, but I would love to see a play that is not supported by big business. I want to see the re-opening of the world famous Loose Moose theatre before I could ever call Calgary home. How could a city let their most famous artistic contribution close down because they couldn't afford the rent in their over-priced neighbourhood, that they helped revive?

For all the pros and cons of both cities, my ideal home rests somewhere in between (no, not Winnipeg). I need the culture of Montreal alongside the Rockies. I need to hear English, French, Arabic, Spanish, Korean, Greek and Russian when I wander the streets, but I want to pay Alberta tax. I want to hear Church bells when I leave my apartment, but I want to see the mountains on my way to work. I want to buy my beer at the depanneur, but after 11pm I want to call dial-a-bottle. I want to get frequent buyer points on the pot that's delivered to my door, but I don't want to buy from the Hells' Angels. I want to spend more than a week a year with my friends in Calgary, but I don't want to be subject to the manners (or lack there of) of the average Calgarian man. I want to enjoy the freedom of being young, but I don't want to be judged because I don't have a car, a career, a condo or kids. I don't want my tax money to support the operation of the Office de la Langue Francaise, I want it to go to health care so we don't have to wait six months for an MRI to be performed in the hallway of a crowded hospital. I don't want to marry a woman, but I don't want to live in a province that believes it's wrong. I don't want to have children, and I don't want to live in a province that still believes encouraging women to reproduce will eventually lead to the separation of Quebec. I want to speak French in Calgary without being called a separatist. My national holiday is Canada Day and I don't want to spend it moving.

Meditations on Stupidity

Most of us intelligent, slightly bitter people, are quick to point fingers at the dummies that surround us. Some of you will probably admit to this upfront. Good for you, no one likes a dummy. Others among us, however, pride ourselves on being non-judgemental. We choose to forget the times we’ve uttered these insulting words, either at the top of our lungs or under our breath. But let’s face it, sometimes it’s well deserved. It’s an epidemic, it’s contagious, and we’re surrounded. On the streets, in our cars, at our jobs. What gives me the right to declare our world full of idiots, you ask? Ten years of customer service, that’s what. I’ve earned the right. I’ve answered one too many stupid questions with a (nearly) straight face and refrained from slapping one too many customers. I’m not talking about school smarts, I’m talking common sense. Alberta, for instance, is overrun by idiots. Before you get offended- think about it. I am twenty-five years old, and I spent eighteen years of my life in Alberta – split between Grande Prairie and Calgary. I do not remember a time before Ralph Klein. I’m not one to believe that there is a direct correlation between education and intelligence, however… Ralph Klein dropped out of high school and went on to become a sports writer for Calgary’s sleazy tabloid paper. This wasn’t good enough for ol’ Ralph though. So he ran for mayor of Calgary, and then Premier of Alberta. All without a high school education. Were he intelligent, I might praise him on his accomplishments, but in fact it’s simply baffling. We know for a fact the man is a drunk who beats his wife. But Albertans smile proudly and say “Oh Ralph,” as though he were a five year old who spilled his milk again. Six years ago, Ralph walked into a homeless shelter, wasted, tossing money around and shouting at all who could hear that they should find jobs. But Albertans went back to the polls, and still they wanted more Ralph. Shortly after, Ralph was expelled from Athabasca University for plagiarism. The man responsible for raising my tuition year after year was expelled from University. Now doesn’t that just explain it. The man has a profound disrespect for education. Educated people in theory would make educated choices. And an educated choice would mean voting for anyone but Ralph. And then one fateful rainy day, Ralph was pied at the Stampede. Now most Canadian politicians have taken the cream pie as a right of passage and laughed it off. But not our friend Ralph. Assault charges filed, and his attacker spent time in jail. I’m proud to say that I went to high school with said attacker. Though shalt honour thy Premier. But I digress, it’s easy to point fingers at Alberta. There are enough Albertans sufficiently stupid to re-elect this man time and time again. Alberta is a place where stupidity runs rampant, or so it would seem. But let's be honest, there are plenty of other offenders. Take for instance, Alberta's big brother, our neighbours, the Americans. Ralph and George share a similar sort of questionable authority. And this got me thinking…

Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe, just maybe, it is in fact us who are the dumb ones? Maybe these so-called dummies are in fact incredibly intelligent, highly talented actors and they have us fooled. Maybe the tables are turned and they get together on Friday for post-work beers and have a good laugh about how we’re buying it. I’m beginning to believe that this is in fact the way the world works. There is simply no other explanation. As we confronted my boss this week about some points in our contract that he seems to have taken liberty with, I suppressed laughter. His ridiculous explanations and lame excuses were almost as pathetic as the stories a drunk teenager would try to feed his parents. But as it was revealed that we were considering accepting employment elsewhere, he feigned shock. Faked it so well, it seems that he momentarily fooled my partner teacher, Leslie. That is, until I pointed out that were he really scared, he would have jumped at the opportunity to give us what we were asking for. And I thought- maybe he’s had us fooled all along. In the past, his lame attempts to cover holes in the contract and his sketchy management of the school were attributed to his stupidity and lack of creativity. He is after all, an accountant- created in an enormous Samsung factory which spawns thousands upon thousands of identical Stewie Griffin-like number crunchers. He understands numbers, and on the surface his skills appear to end at this. But I’m beginning to wonder if we’ve sold him short. Maybe, just maybe- it's all part of a clever ruse to make us feel sorry for him. Perhaps it’s easier to play dumb so people get frustrated talking to you and eventually just give up altogether. Between his poor English and my embarrassingly limited Korean, we can barely communicate as it is. Throw in a façade of stupidity and I barely want to say hello for fear that it might lead to a painfully exhausting conversation. Like Reg, who sits in the corner of the office for moral support, but refuses to open his mouth as we question my boss as to why we are not getting the health insurance that was promised to us in our contracts.

Consider this idea. Maybe every idiot you’ve met in your life has just been playing with you to frustrate and annoy you beyond belief. Maybe it’s all about giving you a story for later. Maybe the world around us has been manipulated and we are in fact at the bottom of the intelligence scale. Maybe our Friday evening rants at the bar are set-ups, entertainment for the tables that surround us, as the dummies pat each other on the back and congratulate themselves on yet another successful week. Because let’s face it. Is it really possible for people to be this dumb?

Jehovah Takes on Buddha

Determined to take full advantage of our first long week-end since January, I decided to spend Buddha’s birthday exactly where I felt it should be spent So Friday morning, I boarded a bus and in two short hours was dropped off at the door of a Temple in Daejeon. Truthfully, the trip wasn’t so simple, but I won’t bore you with the details of my adventures in purchasing bus tickets. Suffice it to say that I mentally flipped through my very short Korean dictionary, but all that came out was upseyo (there is no) and boule (water). It did little to get me on the bus. I will say, however, that I had more leg room on the bus ride to Daejeon than I had on my crappy Air Canada flight here- for a fraction of the cost. The two hour trip cost me twenty dollars return, and left me questioning the ethics of charging 80$ return Montreal – Ottawa. It seems to me that transportation to the nation’s capital should be dirt cheap- if for no other reason than to spice up the mind- numbing nature of Ontario’s self-imposed 8pm curfew.

I arrived at the Temple to find children playing baseball in the lot out front. The Abbott presented me with roses and directed me towards the office. I breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of a coffee machine in the corner. The information packet had encourage me to leave my beer at home, which I can do. But three days without coffee seemed totally unreasonable and I was happy to see that no one would have to be subject to the consequences of 5am wake ups without coffee.

This particular Temple, I discovered, is far from traditional. Few elements of Asian culture are determined strictly by aesthetic or creativity, but in fact results from thousands of years of tradition and rich symbolism. The construction of temples are no exception. Jakwangsa, therefore is a bit of an enigma. Jakwangsa was built in 1969 and they sort of threw out the book when it came to temple design. It was a bit of a relief, in fact. As I downed my coffee, they began the tea ceremony. I had feared that my temple experience might begin with complicated details involving the tea ceremony. Turns out at Jakwangsa, it’s really quite simple; you drink it. I looked around the room. There was a Canadian girl from Toronto who was bragging to an Australian about her French. Appropriately, the Aussie didn’t particularly seem to care. He had just happened upon the temple after getting on a random bus in Seoul. He was excited that he could stay the night and that there was free food involved. The Torontonian quickly dropped the subject of her French skills when she heard I was from Montreal. There was a man from New York with his Korean girlfriend, and we would soon be joined by a family from Philadelphia. We drank our fill of teas and were then taken to the temple for an ‘Idiots Guide to Meditation’ course. And we did, yes. We did feel like idiots, and we did meditate- not altogether a far stretch from an actor’s warm-up so I felt strangely comfortable with it, even though it was all new to me. Dinner time. Korean Buddhist monks and nuns don’t eat meat, so what greeted us for dinner was rice and every type of kimchee under the sun. The family from Philadelphia filled their plates with rice and looked petrified of the kimchee and the red pepper paste that is used as salad dressing. Turns out their son, also an English teacher, met them at the airport and they immediately got on a bus to the Temple. A cruel trick I thought. They fled the temple after breakfast the next morning, realizing that there would be no variety in the food and they were subject to kimchee for the duration of their stay.

buddhas" src="http://media.livedigital.com/pictures/63/31/6331677be9e4f88dbbf3cbff14be7274_thumb.gif" width="150"> I had planned to do a lot of research on Buddhism before my stay at the temple… but being a procrastinator, I never got around to it. I have to admit that I knew little, and still know little of Buddhism. But I was shocked by how simplistic and logical it was. Just common sense, really. You are the only one who can make yourself happy, so here’s how. We had a question period with the Abbott and I was struck by how calm and peaceful he was. At the same rate, I noted how he took great pleasure in being mysterious in his answers. He reminded me of my movement professor, Phillipe Libert who would give vague explanations of exercises by saying that it was as though you were holding a small ‘Stroumph’ (Smurf) in your hand. This was his way of asking you to stop asking dumb questions. The Abbott was a very educated man. He was Korean, and had come to Buddhism while doing his PhD in Astronomy in the US. He also had a Master’s of Physics. In his words- when he heard about Buddhism, it just clicked so perfectly with physics, it all made sense. The following morning, we were awoken by the tapping of a wooden gong, followed by a bell, followed by yet another bell. I should say we should have been awoken by the traditional gongs and bells, but in truth it was the alarm on my cell phone that stirred us. Anyone who has lived with me would probably agree that no gentle tapping of a wooden gong, or a distant bell would wake me in the morning. Pre-dawn meditation, followed by breakfast. I dreamt of a greasy Canadian breakfast, but no such luck - kimchee and rice. Another meditation followed at noon, but the Americans and the Aussie were nowhere to be found. Too much meditation, or too much kimchee?

In the afternoon, I went to the hot springs with the Torontonian. She wasn’t so bad after a full day of meditation. Now here is a contradiction if ever you’ve seen one. Canadians have no problem wearing skimpy clothes at the first sign of heat (or even in some cases, in the freezing cold)- but standing in a change room in a Canadian gym or swimming pool and all around you, people are turn self consciously towards the walls. Some manage to change under their towels. Some pools even offer private change rooms. Koreans are exactly the opposite. Tank tops are only worn by ‘bad girls’ and short skirts have only just become acceptable attire. When mid-drift bearing shirts were all the rage in Canada, you can be sure the trend never reached Korea. Korean children are more embarrassed by their belly-buttons than any other part of their bodies. Put men and women in separate rooms, however, and anything goes. Bathing is a social ritual in Korea. The hot springs were completely naked and hundreds of women paraded around without the slightest display of self-consciousness. The hot springs themselves were a pretty incredible experience. For four dollars, you have access to the various pools- each set at a different temperature, with different herbs in the water. Two saunas, one normal and the other a jade sauna. I only lasted a minute there- I think I singed my nose hair just by breathing. On the way back to the change room, there are rest areas if you want to take a nap. There are hairdressers, pedicures, massages and body pumices available for an extra charge. Sometimes there are waiting rooms with TVs and movies. Saunas and hot springs are open twenty four hours a day- so that you can stop in on your way home from work- sleep there, and head off back to the office. You know there’s a problem with workaholics in your country when relaxation becomes so important that you pass up a night in your own bed.

Following my Sunday morning kimchee, I packed up my things and returned to Seoul. I was craving a hamburger and McDonald’s just wasn’t going to cut it. I made my way to Little America. I could smell it miles away, it was calling to me. My vegetarian days, it seems are long over. The challenge of Little America is that the streets are littered with crazies trying to convert you to every weird offshoot of Christianity. To get from the subway to your destination, you subscribe to an intense game of tag. There are survival strategies. Walk fast. Keep your head down- try to blend in with all the loud Americans that surround you, and above all- do not make eye contact. The biggest obstacle stands directly in front of the Burger King. Signs scattered about him reveal that he is quite concerned about the number 666. And he worries that we are all going to hell. He plays his guitar and sings at the top of his lungs. I’ve often wanted to take his picture, but I’m afraid that focusing his attention on me may result in being ‘tagged’. My quest to find the perfect burger drove me right past him with a huge crowd of equally white people. In Little America, no one stops to stare at blonds. Except creepy military men. As luck would have it, my destination was directly beside the Jehovah’s Witness headquarters (whatever they call it). I knew I should have taken the stairs, but I thought maybe, just maybe- my big headphones would keep me safe. But they failed me. No sooner had the doors closed when the woman next to me tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “Have you heard about Hellfire?” What a pleasant, creative way of introducing yourself. I smiled, trying to suppress laughter and took the brochure from her outstretched hand. I hoped that this feigned interest would make her feel that she had won. I glanced at the paper- the word Hellfire stared back at me, engulfed in flames. I suddenly felt as though I were in a cartoon episode. I was the stereotypical Fred Flintstone character, who had the angel on one shoulder, and the devil on the other. Only in this case, it was a smartly dressed Jehovah’s Witness (who in my mind, look the same as Mormons on a mission) on my right shoulder, and a peaceful golden Buddha on my left. The Jehovah’s Witness was spouting off gibberish and trying desperately to frighten me enough that I would concede and agree to come to a meeting. Buddha just sat there, eyes half closed, smiling. Which way would you go?

R.E.S.P.E.C.T

The summer I turned fifteen, I packed up my bags and dragged them out to the car. Dad let me drive once we hit the highway, and I jumped into the driver's seat. I was excited until I realized he was going to make me stop at every stop sign, even though the car was a standard... and one of those stop signs was at the top of a hill. We finally pulled into the driveway of Camp Chestermere, where I'd spend the next three weeks as a 'Counsellor in Training'. I wasn't there so much for the training, more for the three weeks of horseback riding and water-skiing, but of course that's not what I wrote on the application. I wonder if God is concerned with teenagers lying on their applications for Christian Camp. I also lied and said I went to Church every week. Although I must say that when I consider the group of people that I met at the camp that summer, I was surrounded by liars. Perhaps He'll accept my publicly coming clean as a confession and we can skip the whole booth thing. I didn't realize when I drove through that gate how much those three weeks were going to impact me. Not in any sort of spiritual sense, nor in maturity, really. More because I met my first two boyfriends within that three week period at that camp. Dave and Jon were widely known through my high school years as my 'on and off' boyfriends, although in reality this was true only of Dave. And in reality it lasted beyond high school. Jon was more of a reoccurring fling. With that summer ended the girly giggling about this boy or that, because something changed. Up until then, I could fight and tease a cute boy, but the concept of a date would never have occurred to me. I didn't think that far ahead. I never thought much past the punch in the arm.

But with that summer, everything changed. Starting that summer, I began to have songs associated with Dave and Jon. Everything became complicated, and as it turns out, would remain complicated until... well, it's still complicated. When we're kids, we pass by milestones and barely give them a second thought. I was excited about my first kiss, but didn't realize that it would haunt me years and years later. At the time it didn't even seem particularly memorable... for more reasons than one. When I moved out of my parents house, leaving behind all my toys, all my stuffed animals, report cards, treasures- I failed to see the symbolism in this act. Leaving behind childhood. Moving from my childhood bedroom with pink wallpaper to an empty apartment with white, white walls.

When I moved out of my parents' house at 18, I never stopped to consider what I might be sacrificing in favour of this Independence. I didn't think about the responsibility that would come with that decision. Not that I wasn't ready for it. I was disgustingly organized about paying all the bills the day they arrived in the mailbox. The fridge was always full... although granted the dishes often took a few hours when we finally got around to them. Point is, I failed to consider that when I signed the lease, I was leaving childhood behind. I had entered the world of bills, credit ratings and budgeting. It snuck up on me and I never realized it.

We never realize when we hit our milestones until after the fact. When I auditioned for Concordia, and found out I had been accepted, I returned to Calgary, packed my things and left a month later. No drawn out good-byes. I had been ready to leave Calgary for longer than I had realized. But I didn't consider that things would never again be the same. I wasn't just leaving behind the city that had grown too small. I was leaving my family, and twelve years worth of friends. Friends that I saw in and out of everyday would all be relegated to two weeks a year. That an after work beer with the IMAX crowd was out of the question. That when Thelma came back from Australia, she'd have fallen in love, and would eventually move there- putting us not only on opposite sides of the country, but on opposite sides of the world. Somehow it seemed that our four hour phone calls and nights at the Night Gallery would be impossible. And they are, unless we start dating a la Coree and accept blind dates only with doctors and members of the Samsung family. Our generation moves. And not from Calgary to Edmonton. We don't even consider that a move. You could easily spend three hours on Calgary transit, so the drive to Edmonton doesn't seem so bad. The reality of our generation is that we will travel the world to see our friends. Sometimes we find ourselves closer geographically when we're travelling than when we're home. Alex, my very first roommate who experienced with me the fear of dishes and the pains of our first apartment, moved to Vancouver while I was in Montreal. And now she lives in Japan. We'll see each other for the first time in five years here, in Korea.

If a rush to the suburbs and the sexual revolution characterized our parents generation, we will be the generation to see the world. Having grown up as we did, far from the memories of the Great Depression and the stories that our parents would have been subject to, we've been spoiled. It's been said that we will be the first generation to have a lower quality of life than our parents. And people think it's a shame, but I wonder what is meant by that. If anything, we're taking more care in our career choices, our love lives, our priorities. We don't want the white picket fence, we want six weeks vacation and a job that lets us travel. We are putting ourselves before our jobs, because we saw our parents live unhappily. Having grown up as we did though, in a country where few wanted for the necessities and most of us grew up with TV, CD players and at some point saw the introduction of the computer into our homes, it's easy for us to have a sense of entitlement. We have yet to fight our battles. Our parents saw the big revolution in our schools and work places. Women were no longer restricted to three career choices. Our mothers balanced a full work week and children. I grew up working hard in school and getting good marks. I knew one day I would go to University, the question was what would I do? I overheard an argument between Canadian and American students last year after the Student Strike that followed the 100 million dollars cuts to student loans by the provincial government. The American student didn't see a problem- he said education was a privilege. But this is simply not how we think in Canada. And that is what sets us apart. Education? Yes. Gay Marriage? Yes. Legalization of Pot? Yes. (Pre- Harper, anyway). I spent my years at Concordia frustrated that I was dealing with student loans. Frustrated that the government continued to screw me out of money and I had to work all the way through school while most of the theatre department had parents that gave them drinking money. Frustrated that as I ran off to work after class, my classmates treated me as though I wasn't taking school seriously. They complained about how it wasn't fair that students had to live 'like this'. They weren't referring to my situation, but rather to their own. Unfair that they had to budget their drinking money from their high rise apartments downtown, failing to understand that others weren't so lucky. It disgusted me. But here I am in Korea, and all of a sudden I'm the lucky one. The spoiled one. I earn twice as much as my Korean co-workers. My apartment is paid, and on top of it I don't have to subscribe to the rules of Korean hierarchy. I can challenge my boss, but they can't. I can refuse to attend a meeting or some work that he's delegated. I can decide, and do, that the catered lunch he provides is too cheap to be edible, while the Korean teachers have no choice but to eat it- because what would the kids think? In the end, he's older, he must be respected. I felt stuck during my years at Concordia. Reliant on student loans, that would come two months late, if at all. And it would be less than they promised. I took on extra shifts, and lost my student loans. Eight thousand dollars apparently is not only enough to live on, but enough to put five thousand aside for school, just in case you were wondering. As frustrated as I was, thankfully the situation was temporary. I look at the intelligent Korean women that surround me at work, and I can't help but feel like a spoiled brat. I was flown in and put up in a nice apartment (after fighting for it), only to be paid twice as much and treated like a queen in comparison. I've recently discovered that if you listen closely, you can actually hear the lonely marble rolling back and forth inside my boss's enormous football head. You have to listen closely though, it is after all, just a marble. As dim-witted as he is, it seems that he is smart enough to realize that if he ever spoke to me the way he does them, my bags would be packed and I'd be on the way to the airport. At the end of this year, I'll leave, return to Canada and tell everyone I had a fantastic experience in Korea. But these women are stuck in the hierarchy. And they're at the bottom. In the west, respect has to be earned. If an employer disrespects his employees, he'll see the consequences. But in Korea it seems unthinkable for the employer to be respectful. He demands it, but refuses to give it. The fact that my co-workers acknowledge the difference between our relationship to him and their own is a start. A full out revolution can't be far behind.

I Smell Fear

First off, I want to say thanks. As of early this week, this site has over a thousand hits on it. Not knowing much about this sort of thing, it seems impressive to me- so either one of you is obsessively checking the site in hopes of... well, I don't know.... the meaning of life, perhaps (you can stop looking, you'll never find it here)- or many of you have fallen into a ritualistic weekly reading of my rants. Either way, it's cool. Secondly, today marks the end of an era that I personally feel needs to be acknowledge. My phobia of big purchases is being dealt with head on and I am en route to buy myself a laptop. Try as I might to convince myself to cheap out on it, I just couldn't. So here we go... someone hold my hand... I'm scared!!

Speaking of fear, I smell fear on the campaign trail. Shortly after my announcement last week about my intentions to run in the presidential election, the local candidate started being very friendly to me. True, the Sun King (as he calls himself) has always been friendly. He dresses in the traditional Korean hanbok and takes to the streets directing traffic or greeting people outside the subway in the morning, but somehow his demeanor seems to have changed. He is afraid, I can tell. He knows that I hold an advantage. While he parades about the neighbourhood with his campaign do-gooder activities, begging for attention, people pass him by. His business cards litter the streets of Kkachisan and on Friday nights, the Sun King can be found drunk in a local pub. The shop he rented as campaign headquarters is difficult to find, hidden beneath piles and piles of the traditional Bonne Chance bouquets. I've determined there is either a secret entrance- perhaps a trap door that leads into the back store- or else those inside arrived before the flowers did, and will remain until after the election, or the flowers die- whichever comes first. (These same bouquets can be found littering St Catherine Street (east of Guy) year round, with the usual opening and closing of the hundreds of Chinese noodle places.) If you can dig your way through half of the flowers, you'll come face to face with Santa. Here we are, April- and the Sun King has not yet retired Santa to the closets like the rest of us. In January, Santa wore a hanbok. But then the Sun King needed it back to patrol the streets with his do-gooder campaign non-sense. So Santa gladly gave up his hanbok, and now he wears the uniform of the Korean soccer team. One can only assume that this is in anticipation of the World Cup... although who knows, the Sun King and I are clearly not on the same page. If you are lucky enough to catch Santa's eye, he immediately begins dancing and singing "We Wish You a Merry Christmas". If you're blessed with Superman vision, and your eyes can cut through the flowers behind Santa, you'll see that on the back wall is an enormous floor to ceiling poster of... who else? The Sun King. As I left my house the other night, on my way to return yet another bad movie to the video store, I happened to run into the Sun King and his wife (the Sun Queen?). Perhaps it's my imagination, but I'm sure his eyes became ever-so tiny slits as he bowed and said hello. But that wasn't enough, the evil look he shot me didn't put his mind at ease. He asked where I was going. And I told him, quite simply, I was walking. To which he responded that perhaps I should walk behind him. And I laughed, but inside my own tempers were rising. Walk behind you? Now this is exactly why Korea needs to vote for me. I have never, nor will ever, take a few steps back to follow behind 'the man'. At least he seems to recognize the appeal that a blond women has to the Korean public. Was this an offer to join forces with him? To run together a la Canadian Alliance & Reform? I smell fear... his fear... mmm... Sun King fear..

In other news, I've been cast in a play title Never Swim Alone by Canadian, Daniel MacIvor. The process of working on a play with a young director has come as quite a shock to my actor's sensitivities, after having worked with Ms Kate Bligh on my last show. For those of you who don't know Kate, she's British, and being such has some strong opinions about the way things should be done on stage. The stage is a sacred space. It is Kate who was responsible for the earlier than expected removal of my piercings. It was Kate that instilled in me the professionalism that I have in my acting. I make it sound as though I've achieved this professionalism through hard work, but more to the point, I had no choice. Her super-organizational abilities and all-seeing eye allows her to have a throughout understanding of the piece. So working with someone whose end of rehearsal notes end at "Turn more to the audience" and "You missed this line", is really strange. It is giving me the opportunity however, to uncover things for myself, and I don't have to listen to someone telling me where I need to work. I think most actors with a brain in their head are hyper-aware of where they need to work. It's that damn brain, after all, that stands between us and brilliant work. The brain that keeps talking to you, even when you want it to stop, cause you know if it stopped, you'd nail it. I'm probably starting to sound crazy now. That's okay- here's a little known fact about me (or perhaps widely known, I don't know)- I am crazy. Don't say it too loud though, crazy is a swear here in Korea.

Having said that I have a memory only slightly better than a goldfish, it seems pretty impressive that I remember any of my schooling. But it seems that I do. Besides interrogating M Sabraw as to why he wouldn't cut his hair, I also remember a certain unit about Japan. Now what makes a significant enough impression on a twelve year old Canadian girl with a poor memory, that at the age of twenty five she recalls her first introduction to Asian culture? A few things. The shock of discovering that Japanese children (and consequently, Koreans as well) spend nearly every waking moment in school. I remember saying that I would never want to go there because there was too much school. Yet here I am, a cog in the wheel that is keeping these poor kids imprisoned in office buildings away from the park. What else do I recall of these lessons? The Sumo wrestlers, obviously. Athletes that large rarely go unnoticed. And the spring festivals. I remember hearing about the Lotus Lantern Festivals and thinking how overwhelming it must be to have such an atmosphere of celebration. How beautiful to have lanterns strung throughout the city, and a lantern in every hand. And it was. The festival was in celebration of Buddha's birthday on May 5th. I spent the day in Insadon- the Buddhist cultural area... somewhat, I suppose like Montreal's Old Port. An area that holds onto the past. But unlike the Old Port, the area is not completely overrun with tourists. The day time events weren't anything particularly spectacular. There were information booths pandering panphlets for different types of Buddhism. There was free vegan food available on the street. Make your own lanterns and lotus flowers. Lots of dancers and drums. Buddhist monks swarmed the street, some as young as three years old. To keep in constant communication, many carried cell phones. To keep the memories? Cameras, of course. As I headed to the subway, I was slightly disappointed. A festival with an international reputation and this was the best it could do? I felt ripped off, I'm sure a feeling similar to how a tourist to Calgary secretly feels after the Stampede (sorry, Calgary- I never got the big Stampede thing). As I was about to step into the subway, I noticed the parade was starting. So I stopped to watch, for what I thought would be a few minutes. It started like any other parade, but then the shear amount of lanterns, both in the crowd and in the parade overwhelmed me. Any imaginable size, shape and colour. Many that to me, were totally unimaginable. The parade lasted about three hours, and half way through my section of the crowd was coaxed into the parade. Part of the tradition being that the crowd joins the parade and all the lanterns wind their way through the streets until they reach the temple, symbolizing Buddha's journey to the temple. The sound of Korean traditional drums thundered in my ears, and the streets were lit by the glow of the lanterns. Men and women in traditional Korean costumes danced excitedly in the street, pulling members of the crowd in to join them. Fireworks shot from the dragons and phoenix floats. As the temple came into view, thousands of lanterns formed a tent ceiling outside the temple. And the lanterns were all lit. Each one had a prayer attached to it. This was the gathering place. As each person finished their journey to the temple, this is where they met. At first, it was rather empty- but slowly it filled up and the dancers and drums found their space. I was pulled into the performance space again and again to dance with the drummers, as were many other foreigners. It seemed we were something of a target. An elderly Korean man passed me incence and pointed me to what I assume was an area for prayer. Another took my lantern from me and passed me his. I assume because mine was cheap cardboard and his was a real lantern. One of the Korean dancers, dressed in a beautiful flowing red dress pulled me back into the space and insisted I stay. In true Korean fashion, she thanked me for coming- perhaps not completely seeing that this experience was so foreign to me and I was thrilled to be there. The two minutes I intended to stay turned into four hours, and I dragged myself home after an incredibly long, stimulating day. Buddha's birthday, obviously- is the Buddhist Christmas. And after such an uplifting cultural experience- shared with strangers that I will never see again, it makes me question where Christianity went oh-so-wrong. Catholism is littered with rituals, but none of them (I found) elevate you. None of them engage you with a celebration that is bigger than you. There is no release- no ecstatic party, no drums. There are Christmas trees that have lost their meaning and a fat old man that brings gifts to good children. But only the good ones. A candle is lit each week for four weeks prior to Christmas. One is pink, three are purple. Maybe the other way around, it's been so long I can hardly remember. The Santa Claus parade, in all honesty- is usually pretty lame. Every family has their own Christmas traditions, but in a country so big and families so divided- how much do we really just yearn for a real party, without the pressure of commercialism? The only Canadian ritual I can think of are Montreal's tam-tams. A Sunday ritual in Montreal based around the spot where Jacques Cartier first planted the French flag. There is no relationship between the tams and Jacques, at least not that I know of, but on this spot there stands a huge statue that marks the center of the tams. Drummers and dancers gather, with the Dungeons and Dragons gamers off in the sand pits, and the acrobats, sunbathers and frisbee throwers scattered about the mountain. The sound of the drums is intoxicating, and it is perhaps, the one thing that we have that is trully ritualistic. We've lost so much of ritual, in the name of civilization and order. But we crave it. We need it. But as our schedules become more and more packed with meaningless, trivial duties, we neglect to engage ourselves in life. We're too busy vegging in front of the TV or stressing about our chequebooks. We forget that sometimes we need to escape. Theater, dance, music- the performing arts emerged from ritual - from engagement with the very things that we all share. And having lost ritual, we've lost art as well. We wonder why modern plays can't hold a candle to the works of Shakespeare and Marlowe. I think it's because we have forgotten the very reason that the rituals of performing were so important to begin with. We all have, the audience, the performers, the writers. None of us remember why we're doing it to begin with. Round the world, Asians are thought of as hard workers. Their six day work weeks and year round schooling is baffling to North Americans and Europeans. It's baffling to me and I'm here living it. But Koreans have clearly shown me that they are able to hold on to the past in a modern setting. They are able to set their work weeks aside for a party in the streets of Seoul. They are able to let loose and really celebrate what they believe, without stiffling ritual that is more about social conditioning than true ritual. The interest that was sparked in Asian culture long ago was fully ignited as I continue to contemplate all that I've seen...

Stuck in a State of Everlasting Culture Shock

They say you learn something new every day. I'm not sure if that's true or not, but I believe my memory is sufficiently poor that I could have already discovered the answers to many of the questions I have, but promptly forgot them. Perhaps the meaning of my life is simply to jog my memory so that suddenly everything will become clear. It could very well be, since I often have that unsettling sense of deja vue... like when I watch a movie for what I think is the first time, but it turns out it was my old roomate's favorite movie so I probably saw it a hundred times.

In any case, last Friday one of my older students taught me about yet another oddity in Korean culture. She asked me if I saw the traffic stoppage at 2pm that day. She said at two o'clock, all the cars on the road had pulled over to the side. "Umm... terrorists..." She explained. I was shocked. I was pretty sure that even with the language barrier, I would have heard about something that big. But then she told me she couldn't explain it in English. So I asked one of the Korean teachers, and she said, "Oh yes, practice war." Practice war? What do you mean? The North and South plan a day of friendly fire every year? Unfortunately she seemed to think that her explanation was sufficient because she went no further into detail. Later I learned that there were air raid sirens sounding all over the city - an annual practice drill apparently, that everyone here seems to think is perfectly normal. Personally I was a little freaked out by the reminder that my home is a short forty minute drive from the world's most defended border. But I suppose if anyone is safe, it's those of us who work directly beside the police station in Seoul's richest community...

I was out with my friend Songhee last week-end, drinking beer as one tends to do on a Saturday night. And we were talking about cultural differences, as a Canadian does when you meet someone who strives to stand out in a stiffling culture. Songhee was, once again, inquiring about the marrying age in Canada. And again, I tried to explain that we don't really have a marrying age. I could get married tomorrow, or at 65 and no one would be shocked. Better still, no one would particularly care. I could decide never to marry and still it wouldn't be scandalous. Songhee wanted to know why, after three and a half years with Fred, we were not married. And so, I launched into a complicated explanation of how marriage is taken extremely seriously in Canada, due in part to the high divorce rate in our parent's generation. Canadians want to make sure that we have life experience before settling down, trying to maximize our chances for happiness as adults. I wanted to travel, Fred didn't. So I left, and he stayed. As a Canadian it wasn't terribly complicated. I felt to give her a fair picture of the situation though, I needed to explain the concept of common law marriage. I told Songhee that even without a marriage certificate, if we wanted to say we were married, we could, since we had lived together for so long (shhh- please don't say this too loud, if my head ever realizes this completely, the commitment-phobia might just kick in). Songhee seemed to understand, but starred at me funny. (I would like to take a moment to apologize to any family members who may not have put two and two together. Any (crazy) Catholics may want to close the page and tune in next week...) Finally, she asked what would happen if I got pregnant. And I starred at her, equally confused. I finally replied, "Well then, I guess I'd be pregnant." She continued to stare at me. Finally I stated what for me was obvious. I told her that Canadian women consider three options in this case- abortion, adoption or keeping the baby, regardless of the father's involvement. And then the reason for her confusion became clear. She asked, if the mother decided to keep the baby, but the father would not marry her- would the child be able to attend public school? I'm sure my face went blank. And my reaction gave away my answer. In unison, we asked the other if we were serious. Yes, it turns out we were both serious. The birth certificate of every child born in Korea tells whether or not the parents are married. If the unmarried box is checked, it's private school for your kid and hopefully you can afford it. And so it seems that the unmarried Korean woman who is unfortunate enough to become pregnant, really has no option but giving the child up for adoption. A woman needs her guardian's (father or husband) permission for an abortion. If your guardian won't consent, no abortion. If the woman chooses to keep it, the child cannot be educated, unless she has money. It may be better that the child not be born at all than raised in an 18th century environment where the parent's marital status becomes an excuse to treat him badly. Considering that women who smoke are spat on in public, labelled 'bad girls', and see their school grades and dating options fall quickly away, I somehow doubt that too many Korean men are up for dating a single mother. Damned if you do, and damned if you don't, I suppose. Makes me wonder about the availability of birth control pills. Do you need a man's permission for that as well? I told Songhee that my maternal grandparents were separated and in the 1950s, my grandmother needed a man's signature to take her children to the hospital. But that was 1950. The revelation that such injustices weren't permitted in Canada seems to have awakened her desire to find another country to call home...

In any case, it got me thinking. I am all for cultural differences and beliefs, I think it's important. But even over the last six months I have noticed some pretty significant changes in Korean society. It's an exciting time to be here. More and more young Koreans are travelling abroad, and coming back with tales of freedoms never before considered here. One of my friends claims to have seen five women, separately, smoking in public last week alone. Given that my count in six months is only at three, five in a week is pretty impressive. I have noticed many more Koreans with facial piercings. Up until a month ago, my count was at two. Now it's around fifteen. Things are changing, you can feel it. And with change comes the need for new leaders, new government. So here's the story...

We were on a bad- no, wait- horrendous field trip Thursday, to the National Museum of Korea (site of the 3000 year old monkey ordeal, some four months ago). My boss, being the sort of person who prefers chaos to organization and being of the insane variety (one who does the same thing over and over and expects different results), dragged me, three other teachers and twenty children (aged three to five) to the museum. And, as always, he failed to call ahead to book. Apparently my boss believes that in a city of 12 million people, it should be no trouble to do whatever you want, whenever you want. Like visit the city's largest free museum. I bet no other cheap school owners had that idea. Anyway, we arrived, only to discover that the museum is packed full and we are given permission to enter only in the children's museum. The children's museum about two rooms, and, fitting with Korean logic, contains many things not to be touched. Now remember kids- no running in the gym- we wouldn't want you having a childhood or anything. Hands off in the children's museum- things might be at eye level, but I assure you, it's only so you can see it, not touch it. And so, my boss lets the children run around like madmen, while I, determined not to be responsible for losing one so-called child, insist that that they hold hands and stay with me. But as we've learned before in travelling to museums, there is nothing more interesting than a blond, blue-eyed girl. So I got cornered. A Korean woman came up to me and started asking questions about the school and the program. She had been watching me with the kids and found it incredible that they could speak English so well from such a young age. We spoke for a minute, then I excused myself to be pulled away by the kids. But she followed. Cornered me with her husband and daughters, and started taking pictures. Mary was holding my hand and trying to drag me away from the lady responsible for her boredom. Jennifer and Sally took this opportunity to run off, leaving me fighting with Mary who is trying to pull me in the other direction. Jacob (my boss's son), true to form, is playing with an ink pad in the corner. He is eyeing a 1000$ Louis Vitton purse, as though all his bad behavior and mischief has led him to this very moment. The pinnacle of his career as an impossibly obnoxious child. My boss appears, VIDEO CAMERA in hand. To my shock and horror, the camera is pointing directly at me. He makes no effort to help me with either the kids or this incredibly inquisitive woman. I would have thought that a business man would see this woman as a potential client, but instead of talking to her, or helping me (god forbid), he filmed the whole ordeal so he can proudly send the tape home with the kids saying 'look at our trip to the museum'. Just when I thought it couldn't get any more chaotic, another Korean child appears and corners me from the left. He speaks perfect English, because he was raised in Guatemala and attended an American school. Our conversation was cut short as my boss declared (after getting all the footage he needed for a 'look how popular my blond teacher is' video) that it was time to go. As we made our way for the door, schools passing us left and right- each one stopping to say hello to the funny looking foreigners- it hit me.

I thought all of you (because of your loyalty in keeping up to date with my weekly rants) should be the first to know. I have changed my plans about this year in Korea ever so slightly. After careful reflection and observation of the Korean culture, its tendencies- both logical and nonsensical, I have decided that they need to have a window, small as it may be - to the Western world. My mind has been running through the possibilities since I arrived. How do I keep myself from returning to the horrors of waitressing when the plane drops me off in Montreal? I think I've found the answer. Over the last six months, I have discovered just how important it is to see other countries. To experience another way of life. And I have met many Koreans, some whom have had this opportunity, and others who have not. But as I celebrate my six month anniversary in this country, I'm baffled that the culture continues to astound me. The sort of attention that follows me here is of the sort that actors, singers, politicians fight to get. But to me it just happens. I honestly feel that were I to walk down the street next to the President of Korea, we might be evenly matched for stares and hellos. Might be. There is still a good chance that I would kick his ass. And so I decided, with the election a little over a month away- why not put it to the test? As long as I can put my picture on the ballot sheet, I've got a pretty good shot. In conclusion, you can probably expect that I will stay in Korea at least until the end of my first term. I look forward to taking up residency in the Presidential palace, and sending my private jet for all of you back home. But I might be home in six months if word gets out that the only Korean I know is annio haseyomuliyo (I don't know), bonjaki (sparkly), upsoyo (I don't have) and bap (rice). Oh yes, and ulmayo (how much?)- but really, wouldn't such a limited vocabulary improve relations with the North? ("Annio haseyo, Mr Kim... bap upsoyo.. bonjaki makchu? ahh... neeeeeee...makchu (beer)?") How much more Korean could the President possibly need to know? So remember, on May 31st - election day- a vote for Stephanie is a vote for public school for the bastards, marriage whenever you damn well please, a lightening up on the country's infamous "I'll trade you a joint for life in Korean prison" policy, and the legalization of tattoos. Vote blond! (hello),

What Separates Us From The Americans?

As Canadians, we pride ourselves on... well, I'd say being Canadian, but that's not quite it. Canadian politicians and artists alike have been struggling for years to identify what exactly it means to be Canadian. What does BC have in common with Newfoundland (except perhaps an envy of Toronto and an impatience for Ottawa). Within the enormous borders of our country, what defines the people that live here? We've all come from other countries- whether recently or long ago, many of us forgetting completely where we came from, and thus leaving behind our traditions and old-world beliefs. Others hold strong, and keep their language, and continue to celebrate their traditions and beliefs from what used to be home. But how does this impact our identity? Is Canadian identity one that can be defined? There is nothing easier than spotting Americans in downtown Montreal- they parade around as though they own the streets, attired head to toe in Boston Celtics gear. They get lost somewhere between Crescent Street and Super Sexe. They travel in packs of six, eight, twelve- sometimes more. But more than anything else, they set themselves apart because these enormous groups that take-over our streets are usually all-white. Montreal is such a cosmopolitan city that it's fairly rare to see large groups of one race together, without someone a little different thrown into the mix. So what does that say of Canada? In allowing people to keep their culture and traditions, have we also found ways of bridging cultural gaps and better understanding each other? Or is it simply that the racially mixed groups of Americans blend in better into the streets of Canada? How can Canada possibly have one identity, with such a fantastically diverse population?

As Canadians, we've grown up with a love-hate relationship of our southern neighbours. We're confused by their patriotism. Sure, we love Canada- but as the Montreal comedy duo, Bowser and Blue once said- it's only because we can't afford to go anywhere else. And we don't go screaming it through the streets. In most parts of the country, Canada Day is one celebrated by free 54-40 and Headstones concerts, with some beer and maybe some modest fireworks. It always seemed to me that the Stampede fireworks always outdid the Canada Day ones. If you're an hourly paid employee, it's time and half. In Montreal, we don't even related July 1st to Canada Day. Quebec politics at its best. When we think July 1st, we break into a cold sweat. We start to hyperventilate. In Montreal, July 1st is Moving Day. We have nightmares about July 1st. We start to dread it in January. The rush to find an apartment begins in March, and god-forbid you don't have a lease signed by April, you're likely to find yourself temporarily homeless. On Canada Day. So you've signed the lease. Great. Did you book the truck? Because if your truck isn't booked by May (at three times the rate it would be on June 30th... being that it's a holiday & all), you're going to be begging your neighbours to throw your things into their truck. Do you have people to help you move? Being that everyone moves the same day, it can be tough to find help. Either that or your friends are so sick of spending their Canada Day moving, they hide in their apartments, in bed, under the covers, waiting for it to end. Shaking for fear the phone will ring and they will be called upon to serve. On Moving Day. Then you have to consider, do you live on St Catherine Street? If so, you will be forced to contend with the piddly-ass parade. Then when it's finally all over and done with and you've moved everything you own to the new apartment, be sure not to answer the phone, as it's likely a friend who got stuck without a truck looking for a favor. If you were smart, you called months ago to have your phone line and your cable moved to the new apartment, otherwise you're likely to be on hold until the next moving day. So to truely celebrate our culture as a vibrant city, in true Canadian fashion, we head to the bars on June 24th, le Saint- Jean Baptiste. I have yet to determine why Quebec chose John the Baptist as their saint, but choose him they did. And so we're forced to celebrate "La Fete Nationale" a week early, if we choose to at all.

Now, July 4th, in comparison- is a gong show. Hollywood works hard to ensure that there is an 'America Saves The World' movie released every fourth of July. Nothing like patriotism to pack a theatre and make some money. The national anthem is sung from coast to coast and people are overcome by their love for their great country. But what makes them so great? It is almost like a stereotype that they have given themselves. It is not based in any fact. Studies have shown that the 'American Dream' is more of a reality in Canada. In the 'Greatest Country on Earth', we find some of the world's wealthiest entrepreneurs, living alongside Americans too poor to make their way to a doctor. Too poor to have any real options in life. Canadian students complain about the cost of our education, and we should, since education is a right and not a priviledge. But in the US, it's the opposite. At twenty five to forty thousand dollars a year, how many American McDonalds' workers can make a better life for themselves? What makes the US so great? Still hanging on as the world's super-power, many of its citizens can't afford the basics. Their social safety net is no more a reality than the Hollywood stories. If you fall into the welfare system, you could spend your whole life paying it back. We shake our heads and wonder why people would live there. We are happy that the violence found within their borders largely stays there. We have no interest in it, and can't understand why they are so afraid. What a frightening place it must be, if a child feels he needs to bring a gun to school. What kind of modern country still believes that gay marriage should be outlawed, and possession of a joint should land you in jail for life? All the same, Canadians seek opportunities to find themselves south of the border. We don't want to live there, we don't want to be American, we just want to exploit them for their opportunities. For the money. For the career options. As Canadian artists flock to Toronto in hopes of making some money, the thought is always present that the real opportunity lies just to the south. How embarrasing for Canada that all of our talented artist head south, leaving behind their Canadian identity (whatever that means) to acquire fame and fortune there. If we had a music industry, film or television- would the world know that Jim Carrey, Mike Myers and the Barenaked Ladies, all hail from Canada? How do you explain this complicated relationship to someone who is not Canadian?

My Korean friend, Songhee asked me this week-end if it were true that all Canadians wanted to be American. And I launched into an explanation of our love-hate relationship. We hate American values, but we like the opportunity that the much sought-after citizenship presents. Ideally Canadian actors could live in New York, a mere six hours from Montreal by bus- with twice the opportunity. But when we travel abroad, we proudly wear the maple leaf- determined not to be confused for our American cousins. The first Korean word I learned was 'migguk' (American)- so that when I hear it, I know to turn around and clarify that I most certainly am not American. Koreans have a similarly confused relationship with all things American. The military presence is not particularly welcome, and the American district seems to be avoided by Koreans, unless they are accompanied by foreign friends. I don't blame them. It's the only area of the city where I don't feel safe, and though I blend in more, I also get stared at more. It's not the curious glances of people baffled by the colour of my eyes, but the aggresive, desperate stares of military men. I feel the need to distance myself from these people, and proudly declare myself Canadian whenever I make purchases, as it usually results in a 10% Canadian discount. As much as Koreans detest the military presence, they also have a fascination with American culture. American brand names are huge. There are stores dedicated to the sale of Yale and Harvard paraphernalia. Young Korean men are decked out Chicago Bulls jerseys. When they graduate from high school, many Koreans find themselves in the US in an effort to perfect their English. Why this fascination with a culture that they claim to hate? Wearing American labels has come to be associated with being worldly and educated, just like attending English schools. Korean schools fight to find Canadians to teach the American English. Some schools insist that Brits and Australians cover up their accent and try to sound more blandly American. It's all about status and image, and if you can pretend to be up on all things American, then you're regarded as worldly. A strange dynamic, but perhaps more straight forward than the US/Canada relationship.

In a recent issue of K-Scene (an English by-weekly for foreigners in Seoul), an advertisement in the clubs section read:

World Class is an organization in Seoul that brings together all nationalities to discuss world issues and break down cultural barriers and prejudices. We meet once a week. No Canadians please. Contact xxxxxxx@yahoo.com

Being a Canadian with a sense of humour, I laughed at the ad. I thought it was a clever joke, claiming to be an open forum, but requesting no participation from one of the world's most diverse countries. Apparently other Canadians ex-pats failed to see the humour. The magazine received so many complaints, that they pulled the ad and informed its readers that they would begin sensoring classified ads. There was such an uproar that the Korea Herald caught wind of the story and interviewed the offender, who is of course, Canadian. I was dissapointed by the reaction. If there is one thing that for me, defines us as Canadian, it's our ability to laugh at ourselves. It left me wondering if spending time surrounded by Americans abroad makes us feel as though we should be more patriotic. And in becoming more patriotic, do we lose that which sets us apart? If we stop laughing at ourselves, how will we tell the difference between us and the Americans? And if we can't tell, how can the rest of the world?