And I Thought Dad's Bathroom was Small!

*My new apartment in issues*

I was informed on Thursday evening, March 18th, just over two weeks after my initial move to Hwaseong, that the lease for Jack’s, James’, and my apartments would be up that coming Sunday and we would be moving over the weekend. It appeared I would be on the move in Korea yet again, having just settled into what I thought would be my permanent base of operations for the next year. Mercifully, the late notice was considered, the relocation date extended, and we scheduled a proper move for March 31, giving me at least a week and a half to come to terms with the unsettling turn of events.

During that time, the apartments that we thought would be ours fell through the realtor’s hands and the three foreign teachers would now be split up into several different buildings. One week ago Monday, two days before the move, we were permitted the keys to the various apartments and were then allowed a tour of them. Or at least I thought it was just a tour. In vain, I imagined an apartment showing similar to one in the States: You look at the rooms available and choose a good fit based on your preferences. I was grossly unprepared for how far along in the rental process I had passively been carried by the current of my employer’s executive power: The woman showing us around was not parading available rooms for rent but actually introducing us to our new homes—signed, sealed, and delivered. There would be no going back, as payment had already been made and paperwork had already been filed. The only option available to either James or myself would be to switch rooms with each other, if we disliked our own so vehemently.

I’ve heard that a man won’t marry a woman with a magazine collection because she has too many issues, but the same could probably be said for not signing Korean apartment contracts. I nearly cried when I stepped into Wabora Building Room 208 for the first time. I instantly noticed that my window faced the brick edifice of another apartment wall not twenty feet from it. The other window's burglar bars and tiny air conditioning fans scrunched together into a menacing smile like so many metal braces and caps, barring me from a glimpse of creation. I felt trapped in a concrete jungle that I couldn’t escape, needing to import as much scenery as I could because there was none to be had outside. My heart sank as I thought that the morning sun would not be able to pleasantly peek in the way it had in my other two apartments. It was glumly dim as I glanced around the room, adding to the bleakness. The lights weren't working, a problem which the realtor said was the curcuit breaker and promised to have fixed the next day.

The room itself was easily one-third smaller than 403 Modern House, which itself was half the size of Gyeong-in Building Number 611. It so appeared that so far in my Korean career I had gone from small, to smaller, to tiny. As I looked around the modest accomodations, I was having trouble imagining places to put things. I didn't like where the kitchen was placed, just inside the apartment door and set off as a sort of entryway. It was long enough only to permit an adequate sink and a two-burner gas range, wide enough only for a small sliding door. Having walked the length of the room in under seven strides I grumbled, “I think I just need to find a new country to live in.” I could be thankful, though, that at least it wasn't a hermitude.

I was beginning to feel disheartened at the dismal prospects of culinary, artistic, or interior

design expression this new apartment so far was offering. The refrigerator, having nowhere else to be, stood in a corner on the opposite side of the apartment from the kitchen, which would make retriving cold ingredients a bit of a chore. I noted, too, that the kitchen had no counter-top to speak of, which meant no real space to chop vegetables. A television the size of a small luggage set glared menacingly at me, taking up more precious space with its blank, empty screen. When I glanced into the closet, I noted there wouldn't be room enough for either of my suitcases to comfortably fit inside. As I stood at the closet door, I looked down at my feet and noticed a drain in the middle of the tiled balcony-style room that served as a laundry space--the drain being a tell-tell sign of where the washer's washwater would likely go. This meant that Frankie's box could not find a home in the washroom.

As I followed the realtor around the room that night, I said to myself, “Jennifer thinks that apartment-shopping in South Korea is disheartening at best”—and to that I could add, dismal at worst. I couldn't even concentrate when she tried to show me how to work the water and floor heater, so distracting was my opinion of the new space. I bit my tongue as we left my building, not wanting to betray my feelings. Some of James' advice swirled through my head as the enterage and I meandered through the streets of Jinan-dong: He had told me to inform our director, Michelle, of any issues I had concerning the new place. "I'm not going to say what I think about it," I told my co-workers firmly, trying to minimize my complaint. I think the effort was false, however, as my distaste was rather obviously written on my face while I had inspected the room. They finally pried the truth from me. I was so dissatisfied with it that Jack called our director Michelle and looked at me for clarification. "Your problems with the apartment are the view and the kitchen, right?" he asked.

In their conversation, Michelle asked to speak with me. “I need to know the reasons exactly why you don’t like it,” she said, “in order to tell the realtor.” I told her that I didn't really like the view and that there didn't seem to be much room in the apartment as a whole. She reassured me that she'd speak with the realtor and ask for a different room; if that didn't work, I could talk with James and ask him to switch with me. When asked, James seemed satisfied and content with his living conditions at present. He said he wasn't happy with his own apartment but was unwilling to switch. "It's not want I want," he kept saying, "but it's not really for me. It's for the other teacher, too" (whomever would be replacing him in 11 months). Michelle called back about 15 minutes later and confirmed the impossibiliy of switching rooms because the contract had already been signed. She offered to look for another room for me, but nothing would be available for another four months and I would have to wait until then. It seemed, then, that dispite my reservations with the apartment, I was stuck with it.

Having settled into life in this new space for the last week, I feel like I’m living in a hotel room, one supplied with the sparce necessities that pass for a kitchenette: two cabinets above the sink and three below it, space which is needed to suffice both as the home of my pots, pans, and dishes, and as a pantry. My father's kitchen has more drawers and cabinets than my entire living space. I am sure even my limited collection of supplies barely squeezes into such accommodations. Who knew that such things as counter space, adequate cabinet space, and room for a shower were luxuries? These Koreans have literally cut out everything that isn’t imperative, absolutely necessary--a concept that in this country can encompass anything from cabinetry and enclosed showers to, apparently, sinks. One of my new co-workers recently moved into a place that had no bathroom sink but instead a nearly full-length mirror and a faucet. I suppose, amid all my complaints, I could have it worse.