Professional Couch-Surfing

"The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear the sound of it, but cannot tell where it comes from and where it goes. So is everyone born of the Spirit." --John 3:8

I wouldn't call myself homeless, per se. Every night I sleep happily underneath strong, protective roofing built by someone else many years ago. I stay on my father's couch, or my grandmother's bed. On a fold-out futon in a friend's living room, or in another friend's guest room. Sometimes I stay in someone's teenage daughter's upstairs loft. I guess you could say what I really am is room-less.

"I'm sort of a professional couch-surfer," I told my friend Mario via online chat a couple of weeks ago.

"Hey, do you mean on couchsurfing.net, or the non-internet, real-life version?"

"The non-internet, real-life version."

"It kind of works like this," I went on. "I live with my grandmother... only until I don't. If I have to go into town, I catch the bus early that morning and stay all day, sometimes not coming back until the following day."

Mario was incredulous. "Do you just not want to be at your grandmother's house? Do you dislike it there?"

"No, no," I reassured my friend. "I am involved in Toastmasters [International] in town and cannot get there if I don't take the bus early in the morning. It's supposed to work where I'm only in town Tuesday and Wednesday and am with my grandmother the rest of the time. But if there's a special occasion like Labor Day, I don't mind going out to celebrate it."

Before leaving Korea, I had the chance to experience couch-surfing for the first time--and I felt God move through it in a whole new way. Just after finding out that I had two weeks left at my job, and subsequently in my apartment, I debated about whether I should pay to stay in the apartment for one extra week. I knew the hagwon was closing at the end of May and as I prayed through my dilemma, I felt the Spirit say, "Move out May 31."

Plans were already formulating for me to join Holly Schoephoerster in Southeast Asia sometime in June, but if I left at the end of May, that meant there would be a critical time gap between vacating my apartment and traveling. Where was I to go until then? From out of the woodwork, God started bringing girlfriend after girlfriend who offered me not just support for what I was going through, but places for me to stay.

December, who worked close to my school in Dongtan, was the first to step up. Though it was only twice the size of my Korean apartment (i.e., less than 500 total square feet), she said I could crash at her place anytime I needed. She even offered to hold part of my luggage while I was away in Thailand.

My Korean friend Young Sook, who lived less than a mile from December, wanted me to bring my stuff over to her place simply because she had one whole extra room (including a bed) more than my American friend. "Your luggage-y, big and December apartment small," she said matter-of-factly. At one point, she too offered her apartment as somewhere for me to be.

"Jenny-pah," she said as she gazed intently at me, "stay. In Korea, you stay."

"I can't stay," I told her. At that moment, visions of my family and their need for comfort raced through my head. I knew couldn't.

At the same time, my Korean co-worker Grace Teacher also offered her place. "I would love you to come stay with me," she told me over the phone. "With my mom."

I was astounded by all of the people who wanted to come to my rescue and I knew that they offered themselves through the prompting of God. I never felt so loved or cared for than during those moments. In the end, more because of convenience than anything else, I chose to room with December.

But I wasn't the only one who started a couch-surfing career at that time: So did Frankie. Though my friends wanted me to stay with them, they weren't too eager to also entertain my cat. December was highly allergic, Young Sook deathly afraid, and Grace didn't think her mother would very much approve. So what was Frankie to do without me?

"I'm taking your cat," a new friend of mine, Kealy, asserted the first day I met her. We were out at Hangang Park celebrating Holly's last Sunday in Seoul with swan paddle boat races on the Han; I had just told her about my need to vacate my apartment building in less than two weeks. Though I had had one other offer to take Frankie already, it was still unconfirmed because the girl needed to check with her school first. "I'm taking her cat," Kealy repeated, telling everyone within earshot.

And so it was settled. Just as my mobile life had begun.

"It's fun, but it's not a good way to settle down," I confessed to Mario that day online.

"Getting tired of the couches?" he asked.

"I've been doing it so long it's kind of the new norm I guess. I just want to take control of my own something."

"That's a real shift from having your own everything in Korea, eh?"

A sobering thought, Mario. In my need for control, I have to stop and ask one question: If the LORD provided for me then, in the midst of a foreign people speaking a foreign tongue in a foreign land, why must I doubt that He can provide for me now?

I've certainly seen a lot of Texas towns while under someone else's roof: Somerset, Kirby, Converse, Schertz, Temple, Killeen. I've visited or reconnected with no less than five local congregations. I've also had a chance to spend copious amounts of time with dear friends and family in this new season. Being room-less isn't all bad.

P. O. A.

“And I heard another voice from heaven saying, ‘Come out of her, My people, lest you share in her sins and lest you receive her plagues.’ ” Rev. 18:4

“I have a question for you,” he suggested nonchalantly as we steadily hiked up the rocky pathway towards the summit of Woraksan. “What do Christians think about dating non-Christians?”

My heart pounded below my blouse. “I”—gasp—“would”—gasp—“love”—gasp—“to answer that question, Ben,” I told him as my chest rose and fell like a tidal wave. “When I’m not heaving!”

“Okay,” he shrugged as I dutifully trudged on beside him.

It was a beautifully brisk afternoon that May in Korea. After winter had grasped the peninsula in its frigid grip for the previous six months, it felt good to get out into the fresh air and stretch our legs. Ten or so yards below us, our friend Dan was trailing behind without fighting to keep up. I was only so close because of the company.

As Ben and I approached a clearing mere meters from the top of the mountain, I quickly began to realize I wouldn’t be good for the final push up the trail. Not having been on a vigorous hike since our last walk four months prior, I was a worn-out rag doll. I also discovered that 70 degrees was a temperature still too cold for my asthmatic lungs to be sucking in so rapidly. When Dan arrived, I advised the still-energetic Ben that he should probably go ahead without us.

“Be back in forty-five,” Ben breathed as his boot struck the dirt. While we waited for his swift return, Dan and I settled in on the concrete ledge in the middle of the clearing, and thoughts quickly turned to our absent friend.

Dan, a professed believer in Christ, had been watching Ben’s and my interaction the last three months, privy to confessions on both sides of the aspiring relationship. He knew that Ben and I had walked through serious heartache together when a friend of ours had jumped ship early in March. He also knew that we had become each other’s best friends since that time. “The feelings are there,” he affirmed. “All you gotta do is light the match.”

He knew what the Scripture said about not being yoked together with an unbeliever (ref. II Cor. 6:14), and, aware of Ben’s lack of faith in Christ, began persuading me to look elsewhere for romance. In addition to his spiritual reasons, Dan also gave other sound advice as to why Ben wouldn’t be the best choice. “He’s leaving in three months—” he began.

“I’ve thought about that, too,” I cut him off.

“Jennifer! The match has been lit!”

I looked down at my feet as his admonition hit its mark. Even then, I knew something had to be done about whatever it was pumping so loudly in my chest. I quietly took up the rear as we descended the mountain, conviction weighing down my limbs more heavily than my fatigue.

It wasn’t until the three of us waited for the bus back to Chungju that night that I realized the totality of Ben’s numbness to Christianity. He’s clueless, I thought as Dan and I tried to share the gospel with him. Nothing we said seemed to penetrate his blank stare.

“It’s okay to have feelings for him,” Dan later told me at Starbucks. “It’s just not okay to act on them. You need a P. O. A.—a plan of action.” He sat back a moment and then looked pointedly at me. “You can’t come to Chungju.”

Since I had moved into my new place the previous March, I had been to see Ben several times. Once, he came up to help me move my things into the new apartment. Another time, we had met in Seoul for a Costco run. Just prior to the hiking trip, I had come to see him for a national holiday and found myself stuck two hours away from home—overnight. Even if I weren’t in Chungju, I knew the struck match could still light a fire.

Facebook had become the sole means of communication for Ben and me—a quick email here, a short post on his wall there. We had even begun to chat together if the two of us were ever online at the same time. If I were to limit what I “Facebooked” him, perhaps I could put out the blaze before it started. No more random posts on his wall, I resolved; and if I emailed him, I couldn’t say anything that I wouldn’t want others to read. “Jennifer Lowery,” read my status update a week later—“has her POA.”

***

Fast-forward a year and three months to August ’11, a year since Ben left the ROK and nearly four months since I’ve been back myself: I hardly think about him anymore. With Ben no longer in my physical world, my POA is all but a non-entity. I wrote him, though, just to see what he was up to.

“I’m back in Korea,” he answered jovially, “with a job that I’m blessed to have. I’m here in Jeju [Korea’s prized tropical island paradise] and have been back for two weeks now.”

While in Korea, I hadn’t given Jeju a serious thought—but now, it looked so appealing. With my new passport in hand, all I would need to get there was to get my federal background check back from the FBI. Maybe my next job would be on a sub-tropical island only a short flight from Seoul. Then again, maybe there would be another tsunami.

Recently I noticed another of my friends from the ROK online at the same time as I, so I messaged him. “Maddock!” I had met him the September before, just days before he left the peninsula for Argentina. As I chatted with him, I typed in Spanish to help his language acquisition in his newly adopted country.

“Estoy tan impresionada con tu espanol, mi amigo,” I wrote him. I’m very impressed with your Spanish.

“Y tu tambien,” he volleyed back. And you as well. “Despues de once meses, necesito saber ALGO!” After eleven months, I need to know SOMETHING!

We must have talked in our respective second language for a half an hour or more. I secretly relished the idea that I could turn off my English for so long—and that he was so impressed with my abilities. “Anyway, Maddock, it was great to catch up and chat in Spanish,” I told my friend at the end of our talk.

“Most definitely,” he replied. “Glad to talk to you… Wish I’d met you earlier when we were both in Korea.”

***

In an online Bible study that some friends of mine and I do together, we’ve been studying the prophecies and parables in Revelation. So far, we’ve made it to Revelation 18, the fall of a harlot named Babylon. “All nations have drunk the wine of the wrath of her fornication,” reads verse 3 (NKJV). Another version calls it the “maddening wine of her adulteries.”

In an effort to allow us to understand these things spiritually, our discipler had us understand them physically first. “What do prostitutes do?” she asked us. “Simply put, they receive seed from many different sources.”

Earlier she had argued that this “seed” represents words. We know from the parable of the sower, for example, that the “good seed” sent out into the field is the Word of God (ref. Luke 8:11). This harlot, Babylon, didn’t receive the good seed—and in fact, has mingled it with the seed—words—she has received from others. The “maddening wine of her adulteries,” suggests my teacher, is her mixed words.

Last week, I began thinking about this harlot in terms of my own fallenness, emotionally if not physically or spiritually. When have I received seed from many different sources? Whom have I prostrated myself in front of? Harlots make themselves beautiful and attractive to their lovers—so when have I played the harlot?

My POA really need not have anything to do with Ben anymore. And it has nothing to do with Facebook, either. Rather, it’s about the heart of my own prostitution. I prostrate myself if I make myself attractive to different men through my words—and if I accept their words about me.

My plan of action doesn’t simply mean not writing something I don’t want others to read; rather, it means refraining from saying something that makes me feel good or attractive to multiple men. If it nets me intentional masculine attention, whatever seemingly innocuous action it might be is wrong.

“I saw what you wrote on Ben’s wall,” Dan told me that day I was with him in Starbucks. “And I thought to myself—what is this girl thinking?! [With your post] you’re saying, ‘Oh, I’m thinking about you. I care about you.’ That’s gonna drive him crazy!”

Men love innocence—they’re drawn to it. And I can’t be so innocent as to think my innocence can do no harm.

Settling Down

The day was a warm Sunday in the middle of July. The location, Bill Black's adult Sunday school class at my grandmother's church, Somerset First Baptist. I gulped as I read the title of the lesson for the day: "Settle Down." It had been just over a month since I had come back to Texas from Korea, and this was a subject I had not yet mastered.

We had been talking about Jeremiah for some time in the Sunday school class, and now we had reached one of my favorite passages from the book, chapter 29. It was a letter to the captives of the Children of Israel from the Great I AM. The prophet had been trying to tell the Israelites that what they had been told about their captivity was a lie. Other prophets in Israel had told the people they would only be in Babylon two years, but Jeremiah was adamant that captivity would surely be 70.

"Jeremiah represents either a terrorist or a terrorist-sympathizer," our teacher commented. "These people rejected anything that he said because they thought they knew God and that He dwelt with them."

The Children of Israel truly thought they were in God's will as they prepared to live only briefly in a land not their own; yet God had a different plan for them. "Build houses [in Babylon] and dwell in them," He wrote through Jeremiah. "[P]lant gardens and eat their fruit... [B]e increase there and not diminished (29:5-6)." The LORD surely did assent to restore them to the Promised Land, but they first needed to settle into life as foreigners.

In the Israelites' obedience lay God's purpose: Only after going through captivity would they come to know God in a personal and fulfilling way. "For I know the thoughts I think toward you," reads verse 11, "thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon Me and pray to Me and I will listen to you. You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart" (Jer 29:12-13). The captivity was designed not to alienate them from God, but to draw their hearts ever closer to Him.

"Do not let your prophets and your diviners who are in your midst deceive you," the LORD continues (Jer. 29:8). "Nor listen to your dreams which you cause to be dreamed... [for] I have not sent them, says the LORD." The Children of Israel had believed a false report about how long they would be in captivity, and now they needed to trust God in His timing to bring them out of it.

As I sat pondering my own unwillingness to trust God, the morning's commentary seemed to pinpoint my secret thoughts: "What unrealistic dreams have you been holding on to?" the margin screamed.

I gulped again. For the last month, I had done just as the Children of Israel had been instructed not to: I had believed the "dreams which you cause to be dreamed." I had listened to the desire to be overseas and because of this had become so disenchanted with living in the States that I refused to buy things like a cell phone, a car, and even an apartment. The conviction stung worse than a mesquite switch to the back of the thighs.

The Israelites' journey was beginning to mirror my own. "Seek the peace of the city where I have caused you to be carried away captive," the LORD declared to His people, just as I knew He was speaking to me at that moment. Perhaps being back home would be longer than I had originally thought. My responsibility would now need be to build and not tear down, and pray for the success of the city I am in, "for in its peace, you will have peace" (Jer 29:7).

"In the middle of the summer, I heard an amazing Bible study about settling down," I chatted to a friend a couple of weeks ago via Skype. "I haven't forgotten it."

"What did [the study] define 'settling down' as?" she asked.

"Learning to live in the place God has for you now, even if it's not the place of promise," I wrote. As I typed my response, I knew that confessing it, just as sure as walking it out, would be a leap of faith.

Hesitation

The air quietly breathes its freshness into the room as I sit as a guest of my friend December's on a newly-made Moroccan rug. Ruthie, the small house dog, grunts and growls at me from her high place atop the bed where her owner is resting. December's phone tells me it's finally morning: June 21, 2011, by its end the longest Tuesday I'll have ever had. Homecoming Day.

In less than six hours I will be boarding a plane bound for Texas with my one-way ticket in hand, unsure of when the next flight will ferry me back to Asia. Yet, my suitcases remain glued to the floor as if they were impenetrable rock. In less than two years this part of the world, largely unknown to vast populations of the US, has burrowed itself deep in the ressesses of my heart in ways that I never expected, and I quite hesitate to say goodbye.

Here are a select few of those ways:

*I chanced to meet a woman at a thrift store who, despite obvious language barriers, became one of the dearest and closest friends of mine and accepted me with such deep, unconditional love.

*I've been encouraged and strengthened by the ex-pat Christian community through the ministries of Seoul International Baptist Church and its members.

*Through three schools located in two countries, I had the privelege of reaching out and ministering to four major ethnic groups within Asia: Russian, Indian, Thai, and Korean.

*I tried my hand--er, lips--at speaking in four previously foreign languages and successfully carried a tune in two of them.

*I witnessed North Korea's picturesque mountainy landscape and was able to meet a young man who has actually vacationed in that closed country.

*I have been able to earnestly beseech the heart of Father God for the hearts, souls, and lives of dear, dear friends that I have come to greatly cherish halfway around the world.

*I was unexpectedly able to join a girlfriend on her trip to Thailand and might have found the next step of the journey.

About two or three years ago--summer of 2009, if memory serves--I had a dream about two pictures posted on Facebook. One was a picture of dried fish and the other was a shot of bottles of beverages in a grocer's chest refrigerator. In the dream, a close friend of mine commented that there was "a better selection in the Asian markets here."

I was just commenting about her comment when I shot up in bed and marveled loudly, "I just had a dream that I was in Asia!" Within months of that statement, I was.

"I can't believe you're leaving," my friend Josh commented offhand this afternoon as I helped him edit his paper one last time. "We've talked about it and you have good reasons, but I still can't believe it."

Neither can I, Josh. Neither can I.

Padre Nuestro

"I have something for you," he said slowly. "But it's in Spanish. It's from Matthew chapter six verse nine."

The thought of the gift itself already caught me off guard, but knowing that it was in such a completely foreign language--in Thailand--surprised me all the more. Amid the rustle of student activity, he slipped off a wide silver band and handed it to me. I fingered the engraving while it was still warm and then, quietly in the middle of class, I began to read.

"Padre nuestro que estás en el cielo," I started, "santificado sea Tu nombre." Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.

From beside me, he declared simply, "Amen." Perhaps his class would have to wait.

"Venga a nosotoros Tu reino," I continued. "Hagase Tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo. Danos hoy nuestro pan de cada dia. Perdona nuestros ofendas como tambien nosotros perdamos a los que nos ofenden. No nos dejes caer en la tentación, y liberarnos del mal. Amen."

Thy kingdom come, it reads in English. Thy will be done on Earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.

He looked at me when I had finished. "Jesus didn't teach His disciples how to heal the sick or do miracles or feed five thousand people," he explained. "He taught them how to pray."

So now he was teaching me.

Thai Peace

Sawatnika! That's Thai for hello. I'm currently sitting at an Internet cafe in downtown Bangkok--and it's been a wonderful trip so far. I've seen God provide for my every need and go above and beyond what I envisioned. It says so in Scripture that He provides that way and it is so moving to see it lived out.

I have come to hot, sticky Thailand to check out a ministry opportunity with a friend and help out with it as much as I can. It's an English school called Santisuk that's run just like a church: They teach Scripture and Bible stories using English as the medium. The workers there have taken me in and given me and my friend a place to stay. Holly and I have just been blown away by their acceptance of us, no questions asked.

I have been nothing but encouraged since landing. The woman who picked me up at 2 in the morning Tuesday night prayed that my delayed flight would not be canceled and, two hours after it was scheduled to land, we taxied to the arrival gate. The next day, I waited among other Christian Thai in the still night air for a powerful Hillsong United concert that almost never was. The very next day, I was able to pray over a host of little children gathered quietly at my feet and tell them the story of Samuel annointing King David, symbolically annointing them for the work God has chosen.

I know this trip is from the LORD and I am so richly blessed to be here. I have a new friend named Kong who says I should come back and volunteer. He says that the country has a lot to offer and that, if I were interested, I might be able to come and teach at an international school here as well.

"Thailand," he whispers to me as we walk along the road or sit in his classroom. "Thailand."

Casanova

The last Sunday in May, December and I rounded the corner behind the thirty or so other waegukin-dul jockeying for position. We had signed up with William Cho and the Adventure Korea meet-up group for an all-day excursion to the DMZ. In front of us stood a long charter bus commissioned to ferry the large ensemble across Korea’s hotly contested terrain to its destination of choice, mere inches from the North Korean border.

Hoping to sit together, my friend and I soon realized that with all the people going there would likely be no dual seats left when we boarded the bus. Wonder of wonders, however, just four rows back from the driver sat a pair of seats yawning at each other across the aisle. December took the one to the left of her—which meant that I was left with the right.

The man filling the window space next to the empty seat could have easily been more than twice my size. I noticed his beefy thigh spilling over into the emptiness—and still he seemed cramped. To say that he was stocky would have quite underestimated his stature. “Excuse me,” I asked the stranger. I didn’t want to be rude and request him to move his leg. “Can I sit here?”

He looked up from the device plugged into his ears and visibly softened when he saw me. His eyes twinkled with unspoken excitement. “Yes, of course,” he agreed all too pleasantly, squeezing over half a centimeter.

There was no place for his leg to go and clearly no more room for my own. Reluctantly, I set my purple backpack down between the seats and slid in next to him, thigh-to-thigh. Pulling out my book, I opened Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and tried to settle into the uncomfortably close hour-long bus ride.

Just across the Hangang heading northward out of Seoul, my seatmate interrupted me; it would be an intrusion to last the rest of the trip. “I’ve met her,” he said, nodding to the book. “Maya Angelou. She’s incredible. I read that book when I was in high school.”

“Did you like it?”

He shook his head.

“It’s more of a girlish book,” I nodded. “It talks about her being eight.” I had just finished the heart-wrenching piece of the story where she and her older brother are transported back to Stamps, Alabama, after a man’s choice had forced her to grow beyond her years. It was clearly dealing with feminine issues over masculine, I could see—so I sympathized with why he hadn’t been interested.

“I’m Calhoun, by the way,” he offered.

“Jennifer. Nice to meet you.” After we shook hands, he put away his music device and I put away my book, an unspoken bond of friendship now quietly linking us together. And once any relationship gets started, without dire consequence it’s impossible to simply walk away.

It wasn’t too long after initial introductions that my sitting companion started in on a particular subject that he never left off for the remainder of the trip. He began slowly, almost sympathetic at first, like a caged animal whimpering for help. But I soon discovered that he waited only to see if I would take his bait.

“Girls have it much easier than guys here in Korea,” he started to say. I tried asking for his reasons for such a quick assumption. He said that if they didn’t want a relationship or just wanted to party, then they were free to do just that. I hadn’t yet told him I wasn’t like most girls.

“Girls in Korea don’t want a relationship,” he affirmed pessimistically. “Most of them are only gonna be here for a year. Guys are left with turning to Korean girls.”

As Korean girls were notoriously skinny, I asked him what he thought of their general body shape—in hindsight, a particularly bad move. “I don’t want an anorexic stick,” he confessed. “You—” he looked me up and down, noticing the plump curve of my calf muscle. “Your size is perfect.” It was my first of many inklings—and outright blatant statements—of Casanova’s true thoughts about me.

As we debussed for our first stop of the day, Imjingak and the Freedom Bridge, we had to turn in our passports to the tour guides for verification and inspection. In line to do so, my companion mentioned behind me that he wasn’t very proud of his picture—but I assured him that mine was worse. Taken nine years and nearly thirty pounds ago, it stood in stark contrast to the much slimmer woman in possession of it now. As soon as we boarded again and were handed back our ID, I surrendered my right to be in the ROK for the second time that day just to show him.

It wasn’t my best move. He studied the information page a moment and then looked at me. “All I can say is,” he smiled slyly, “now hot…” His gaze trickled back to the open document in his hands and his face leaned toward me. “Then hot.”

With everyone now on the bus, the engine revved itself in preparation for another long drive, this time one hour and a half away to a string of restaurants along the Line of Demarcation. It was during this particular stretch that my companion’s topic abruptly intensified. Glancing out the window absently, his thoughts returned to the problem men faced. “That’s why they worry about the gender imbalance in China,” he was saying. “If women can’t fill guys’ needs, there are problems.”

I looked away from him a moment then smiled demurely. “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I admitted softly.

He would have spit out water through his nose in his astonishment had he been drinking any. “Don’t tell me you’re—”

I cut him off with my unbroken gaze. “Squeaky clean.”

“Really?” he asked, still incredulous. “You know, I think three things about that.”

Okay, Casanova, batter up.

“I consider that a challenge.” His first swing.

“I think you’re really missing out on something.” Strike two.

And a little under his breath he hastily chopped at the third: “And I can’t wait to show you.” Strike three. Yyyyyou’rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre out! If he had really wanted to get to first base, the man was surely going about it the wrong way.

Since when had my choice to save myself been an open invitation for him to take that gift from me? It was like having your greedy cousin over Christmas Morning, shaking the presents: What was left whole underneath the tree would surely be in pieces after his touch.

For my benefit, after my intimate confession my seatmate proceeded to build an argument for why promiscuity was not only the best choice for me at this point, but actually would lead to a more fulfilling marriage. “Society frowns on going after all these other guys,” he warned. “But there’s nothing wrong with being… with the one you love.” He then went on to suggest that my “experience” outside of marriage would do nothing but keep my husband satisfied because then I would understand our own compatibility.

Along with this argument, he voiced a staunch critique of the church for preaching a “suppressive free will” doctrine not actually found in the Bible. The Good Book, he said, talks about the freedom of choice—and because of this, I should be free from what others tell me I should do.

Again my steady gaze met his. “Is it all right if this is what I’ve chosen to do?” I asked him sternly. Is it okay if I actually agree with the will of God for my life?

“No, there’s nothing wrong with it,” he whimpered defensively. He just didn’t want me walking into marriage with any disadvantage, he said. If somehow my spouse and I weren’t compatible, finding out at the altar would then be too late.

“You’ll never guess what I was talking about on the ride over here,” I told December as soon as we had disembarked and started for the nearest empty restaurant. I then recounted the last hour’s sultry details as we dined on bulgoggi surrounded by a crowd of chairs and the stares of DMZ locals.

“Jennifer!” she chided in mock rebuke. “I was over there having intelligent conversation—what were you doing?” As I began filling her in on more of the story, however, her face fell. “Jenn, do you want me to switch seats? I can ask Hatish—”

I stopped her, equally as uncomfortable with the message that would send as I was with the topic of discussion. I couldn’t just dislodge myself from the web of human connection so recently spun. My hope was to wait out the day and see if he made any more passes.

The two of us chatted amiably for the rest of dinner until it was time to head back to the bus—and to our respective seats a chasm apart. “I’m sorry you got stuck with the creep,” December told me in sympathy. “I actually like my seat partner. He’s so nice.”

Sometime after lunch I raked up the courage to tell my seatmate how I really felt. “I’m not the right girl,” I confessed.

Playfully, sensually, he threw me a knowing look. “You might be,” he raised his eyebrows.

But I was adamant, unwilling for him to entertain even the slightest thought. “No, I’m not the right girl,” I repeated—this time with mild success. He made no more remarks about trying to make me his woman.

The rest of the trip was largely uneventful. That is, until the part I dreaded most: nearly the end. As he readied his things to take his leave of the bus at the first stop on our way back into Seoul, he again offered me his hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Jennifer,” he pronounced as sweet as a gentleman, rather in contrast to what came next.

His words slid like slick oil from his mouth. “You made the trip very enjoyable. I’m sure your dad would agree—” There he was again, leaning his head so far down and uncomfortably too close as he finished his sentence— “beautiful women make everything better.” As he said it, I couldn’t help but feeling like his personal eye candy. No wonder an already-cramped big man like him wouldn’t mind giving up the precious space beside him to a slender girl like me.

“Is it okay if I find you on Facebook?” he asked—this generation’s version of adding me to his Little Black Book. I told him it was, if only to squirm out of saying no. But the more I thought about it, the more I had serious doubts about accepting his request.

Monday morning as I sat in my quiet apartment, I was reading through the book of Jude. In it, the apostle warns of “certain men… who turn the grace of God into lewdness” (1:4). These, the writer asserts, follow their hearts’ desires by “mouth[ing] great swelling words [and] flattering people to gain advantage” (1:16). Hmm. Casanova to a T. “Sever yourselves from such a man,” Isaiah admonishes (2:22). “For of what account is he?” Though not expressly stated, surely that type of finality would include even frivolous connections like Facebook.

For about a day after receiving it, I let his request simmer along with the other new requests in the virtual pocket that the most popular social network had created for that purpose. Then Tuesday morning, just as quietly as the offer was made, I reached up my omnipotent cursor to the second button on the right—the gray one instead of its pleasant companion dressed in Facebook blue—and swiftly clicked “Ignore.”

The Man from Samgakji

Just after moving to Hwaseong-si last March, I was excited to note that I'd be living on the Seoul subway line. That meant there'd be no more two-hour early morning bus rides from Chungju to get to church on Sunday mornings, trips which rarely happened due to the distance needed to traverse. All it took now was a three-minute hop on the bus to get to Line One's Byeongjeom Station, seven stops to Guemjoeng, then 15 more to Line Four's Samgakji, with one final stop at Noksapyeong on Line Number Six. SIBC rested just down the road in Habangcheong, a five-minute walk from there.

One pleasant Sunday morning at Samgakji Station in the middle of that month, I started a conversation with a slightly older black man from Nigeria (or another similar African state), who also happened to be waiting for the train for Line Six. He said he was on his way to church at Hangangjin three stops away; I told him I was headed to church at Noksapyeong. I was so excited about my upcoming trip home to Texas the following April that I told this stranger about my brother's wedding as we waited for our train to arrive. We entered the subway together when it came, chatted amiably as we rode, and then cheerily parted ways once I reached my station.

Having come to Korea just four months before this encounter--with nearly all of that time spent in Chungju, excluded from the country's most popular ex-pat hub--I was still wide-eyed whenever I glimpsed another foreigner, no matter his nationality. Naively I believed that each one of them should be my friend. So, too, was my attitude towards this man: While standing on the platform together on that day, I gave him my name and email address. Pleasantly, he reciprocated with his own. I stuffed his address in my pocket when I left him and continued on my way, intending to add it to my growing list of Korea-based contacts.

Several months later in the summertime, long after my safe return from Texas, I found that scrap of paper with the man's email address written on it as I was cleaning things in my apartment. I contemplated for a moment whether or not to keep it; after all, how were acquaintances to become friends if not for more than initial contact? The more I thought about it, however, the more I felt convicted that this wasn't a connection that I needed in my life. The LORD had given me a plethora of friends here and this man didn't need to be one of them. It was then that the fun began.

After having not seen this man for months upon months, later that summer I bumped into him again at Samgakji. Not only did he remember me, but he also remembered where I had been and asked me about my brother's wedding. If memory serves, he even asked what I had brought him from the States. Red flag number one. He then recited everything I had said to him that first meeting verbatim--my name and email address, that is. Red flag number two.

He asked if I would go to church with him that morning, which I politely declined. And then he asked for my phone number. After I refused to give it to him, he became belligerent. "I thought you were nice," he kept saying. "You were such a nice girl. What changed you?"

I continued refusing him, reminding him that I was already late for church, but he wouldn't take the hint. "I am too," he said as he followed me out of the subway car at Noksapyeong, up two flights of stairs, then up two more escalators. "You were so nice," he repeated. "I thought you were nice."

"You're not gonna be nice?" he asked as we reached the last escalator and the exit to fresh air. "I thought you were a nice girl."

"I'm sorry," I told him as he followed me off the escalator. "I really have to go."

I didn't look back as I started my walk to church, though I prayed earnestly that he wouldn't follow me. He must have hailed a cab for Hangangjin, for I didn't see him again that day. But his persistence only worsened.

At this point, the man was merely a nuisance but not a threat. The next time I saw him about a month and a half later, we were standing in the same spot where we had met: just to the right of the stairs leading to Line Four, and just in front of the door to car number six. He had forgotten my email address, he said--magically--and needed me to refresh his memory. While I was at it, could I not toss him my phone number, too?

"You're strong," he hissed when I refused his request the second time. "Something happened when you were away. You're strong," he said again. And then he leaned in for the kill: "I break you."

Excuse me?

Mercifully at that moment our train chose to arrive; however, unmercifully, he was still headed in my direction. I walked onto the metro car and grabbed one of the thick vertical poles attached to the seats, which were sparsely populated by other riders. He advanced inside the train briskly and quickly found my left side, determined to continue his interrupted demands. "I break you," he repeated. He then grabbed the wrist that was holding onto the pole.

"Here, sit down," he whispered forcefully, nearly pulling me from my vertical position. I wriggled my arm free and remained standing, decisive silence filling the distance between us. After hearing the call for my stop, I abruptly shifted my weight towards the door and grabbed a cold handlebar to its right.

An older Korean woman stood next to me as Noksapyeong came into view. "Anieyo," she leaned over and whispered to me. Her hands were shaped into an over-sized X, Korea's universal sign for no. "Anieyo," she told me again, stringing unfamiliar sounds together as a form of advice.

"Comsahamnida," I thanked her as we heard the doors slide open. Even a monolingual ajumma could see through this man's actions, I reasoned.

There to greet my view as the train slid to a stop was the one who had witnessed half the encounter, my church friend, Holly Schoep. I threw my arms around her, never more thankful to see a friendly, aggression-less face, and confessed the scenario to her as we hiked up the stairs. "The LORD has made you into a strong woman," she proclaimed. "I'm proud of you for standing up to him."

Another month or two lapsed before my next encounter, this one just as eerie as the ones previous to it. I noticed him standing at the base of Samgakji's stairs as I breathlessly jogged down them. Avoiding him, I rapidly turned right when I reached the bottom and headed several rail car doors further on. I must have caught his attention, for as soon as the train arrived and I stepped onto it, there he was behind me.

I quickly crossed the width of the car to its right side and lowered my head toward my book. Following me, he tried conversing pleasantly at my elbow, but I didn't take my eyes from the page. He then followed me back across the train as I turned to face its left doors.

While I was still trying to read my book, he bent toward my right ear. "Next time I get your phone number, okay..."

This time I did look up. "Excuse me," I curtly declared and walked off the train.

I started trying to hide my identity at Samgakji as soon as the weather began to cool. Just before Line Four arrived at the station, I would quickly pull my hair into my hat, zip my jacket all the way up to my nose, and pull my circular scarf as far up my face as would permit me to see. It was impossible to fully disguise my hair, skin, or eyes in a land of monochromatic body tones, I knew--but perhaps my techniques would throw him off enough not to notice me.

As I repeated this stunt each Sunday, I would think about the things I couldn't hide: I always brought the same turquoise-blue travel bag to church, which never seemed to blend in. Plus, I was still reading the same book he had caught me with the last time. In the end, I thought perhaps disguising myself wouldn't do much good. Since it had been months since I had seen him last, maybe my Samgakji troubles were finally over.

This past Sunday proved a different story. As I stood at the side handlebar of the rail car's left doors, I caught a glimpse of a black man seated one section from me on the car's opposite side. That's him, I panicked. So he does ride the same train as me! Carefully I extricated myself from my post and slid through the double door leading to the next car. I looked down at the book I had forgotten to read just as a familiar voice reached my right elbow.

"Jenny," he called to me--with a name so intimate I let only my closet friends use. "I've been doing some traveling, too. It's such a long time. How are you?"

I had intended this to be a one-sided conversation and didn't glance up from my book. After several seconds' awkward pause, I finally thin-lipped, "I'm fine."

"Are you meditating?" he smoothly inquired.

Again, I was curt. "No, I'm reading."

As I said this, the train coasted to a jerky stop and opened onto Samgakji's platform. "Excuse me," I announced as I took my leave. He refused to take his.

I bolted for the arched opening from the platform to the corridor, feeling the weight of his steps as his shoes nipped at my heels. I half-walked, half ran to the other side of the passage, willing myself to calm down. Deliberately, I crossed to the right side of the vast hall, hoping I'd escape his pursuit if I hid myself inside a moving walkway. Yet Sunday was the one day these were turned off. I heard his heels click the metal slats of the non-moving horizontal escalator as we continued.

Bounding down the stairs at the end of the hall, his footfalls matched mine in intensity and speed. Clearly, this was a chase. I rounded the corner at the bottom, thinking I had time enough to hide, and stopped behind a large structural column a few meters past the stairwell. Through the glass reflection, I could clearly see him approaching my position from the front side.

"I recover your email," he smiled confidently at me as I tried slowing my breath. "I email you tonight. Is that okay?"

"No, it's not," I grimaced.

"May I see your book?"

"No!" I barked, surprising myself at my intensity. And then I looked him square in the eye. "You may not."

Though he was still smiling, inside I knew he felt defeated. Without another word, he shrugged half-heartedly and skulked away.

Sah Kyejole: Spring

My student Annie's response to her journal topic, "What does a teacher do?"

Springime came slowly for the inhabitants of the Land of the Morning Calm in 2010. Just as Brandon had predicted, it was still thick-coat-and-tall-boot weather the week I moved to Suwon at the beginning of March. Aside from the blossoming buds I began to notice around church, I was unaware of any real change in season as the weeks progressed. "The only difference between Korean winter and spring," I remember writing on Facebook three weeks after my move, "is that now the flowers are cold."

Though the mercury on the the thermometer changed little that season, creeping ever-so slowly towards warmth, many changes in my life were ushered in with the intervening months between winter and summer: Not only did I change jobs and cities in a foreign country; sign a second contract which extended my stay by four months; and leave the support base of friends that I had come to cherish. I also saw two of those friends, Andy and Laura, depart Korea for good shortly after I left. But even as they did, I began to see the LORD populating my life with a rich group of women from SIBC, and even at my workplace, who were strong in faith and steadfast in love.

"It's a good step for you," I remember Brandon commenting as we helped pack Laura's one-room apartment in the middle of March. "You'll be surrounded by like-minded people," he said. As I reflect on the manifold blessings the LORD has given me through the people I have come to cherish here, I can see he was right. If I really had wanted to stay in Korea, coming to Suwon was the best move I could have made.

* * *

Spring: Bome-cheol 봄철 2010

March saw Frankie and me settle into one apartment, only to have to transfer to another four weeks later. All in all, the move was convenient: it brought us closer to the station, within walking distance of a small Korean grocery store, and only three blocks away from the nearest bus stop.

In the middle of the month, I went to Seoul to see a friend from Chungju and was caught in a soggy winter storm. I didn't even have any stockings on underneath my pants because I thuought it would be warm! After leaving my friend, I stood an hour in line with the Koreans as we huddled at the station awaiting our turn to hail a cab.

The ladies of SIBC took me out one warmer Sunday afternoon for bokembab in Insadong, followed by a lovely chat at a nearby tea room, the Old Tea Shop, which was populated by tiny finches and sparrows. It was quite a romantic, relaxing day.

On the second of March, I started working with James (L) and Grace (R), among the other staff members of ILS Dongtan.

For St. Patrick's Day, the "Irish of the Orient" treated me to the best Patty's party I've ever attended: Green was in abundance, dancing was the flavor of the day, and St. Patrick (a.k.a. Our James Teacher) himself graced us with his celebrated presence.

On the fiftth of April, the day Koreans celebrate Arbor Day, my kindergarten students went for a short field trip to a local park to plant tree seeds. The air was fresh, the weather breezy, and the sun warm--the makings of a fine spring day by Texas standards. The Koreans, however, didn't seem to be expecting it: My students came dressed for the elements that day, complete with jackets, warm-up suits, and three layers underneath. My K-1 student, Harry, looked at me after he had just been running around in all those clothes and said, "Teacher, hot." Why, naturally.

A friend of mine and I went for a nature walk/hike through Dongtan's famed Central Park just weeks before I left for the States. It took an hour to traverse, but overall was quite a pleasant experience.

Springtime was also when I met my friend December, a Christian woman who lives near where I work. She invites me out to the movies or dinner from time to time. On this occasion, she introduced me to Pho Mein, an elegant Vietnamese-style chain whose cuisine is some of the tastiest I've had this side of the States.

Enter Daniel Barnett. He effectively replaced me as the other foreign teacher at Learning Well. Brandon introduced me to him during Easter weekend when they came up to Seoul to visit my church and he proved very instrumental in the LORD's direction later that summer.

Mounting Sajo

The first time I ever went skiing was in January 2003 with my church’s college ministry for a weeklong adventure in the snow and slopes of Colorado’s famed Durango Mountain Resort. Though I had taken ice skating lessons in sixth and seventh grades, I had yet to master balancing on two thin blades—let alone strapping flat, plastic sticks to my feet and pointing me down a mountain! I was non-too-prepared for the frightening speed I picked up as I barreled down the slopes of the Rocky Mountains that winter. At least with ice skates, you stay on level ground.

Since my terrifying first experience, I have mounted skis four more times: once at Sugar Mountain in North Carolina, and now three times in Korea. By no means am I an expert, but now I consider myself a “comfortable novice”—still a newbie, just a little drier behind the ears. My progress on skis seems a vast improvement since my days at Durango when I was so out of control that I slid up an embankment to kiss a tree with my knee, and so mad at myself for not succeeding that I yelled at my college leader on the mountain for making me take a second ski lesson. Eight years later, I’m still nervous about dismounting the lift, but manage to stay upright far more than I am prone.

Considering my newfound skills in the sport, when Krista suggested we ring in the New Year with an adventure at Sajo Ski Resort near Chungju, I felt I was up for the challenge. She had never been skiing, she confessed, and with my four nearly successful attempts I knew I was confident enough to lead her through the basics. Never would I have thought on the bunnies of the Rockies that one day I could call myself an unofficial ski instructor. My, how my college group would have been proud!

“You put your boots on like this,” I told Krista once we had left my ARC (Korea’s rendition of a green card) and Krista’s camera as insurance for our skis and bibs. I pried open the plastic-coated lip and slipped my foot into a compartment one size too small. It was then that the enormity of the task I had just taken on hit me in the face: As I struggled with my footwear, my mind kept drawing blanks as to how to teach my companion the rules of a sport I barely had grasp of myself. I felt at that moment as ill fit for a ski instructor as my boots had been for my feet.

Returning the shoes for a larger pair, I discovered that the skis given to me weren’t fit correctly to my new set of footwear. As I showed Krista how to attach boot to ski, I stared at the gap on my right that should have been flush. “That’s problematic,” I thought to myself. “I’ll have to go back and have them readjust it.” But since we were so close to the ski lift—and by this time it was already 2:30, with just two hours to ski—I let the matter drop.

The two of us managed to scoot ourselves, cross-country style, from the entrance of the resort to a line for the bunny slope, which was twenty rows thick and three people wide. We chatted amiably while awaiting our turn up the slopes, adding our friendly English to the chorus of pleasant Korean clatter around us. As we stood there balanced on our rented skis, I desperately tried again to remember what came next, dread twisting in my stomach like a writhing snake: Now it was crunch time.

Soon the severity of my boot-ski situation bared its unpleasant head. While trying to show Krista how to “pop” snow off one ski by flipping it upwards, my right ski popped itself off my foot. Conditions only worsened when we caught the lift. Just as the two of us caught the lift up the mountainside, my lose ski popped off again and the Korean manning the ride had to run after us to hand it to me—exactly what I had been afraid of while in line. As there was no way to safely reattach my ski without losing something or falling off my seat, the only thing I could do was hold both poles and ski with one hand and the safety bar with the other. This meant, of course, that at the most crucial stage of Krista’s ski-learning thus far, I would out of commission.

“You have to scoot all the way to the edge of the seat,” I told her as we neared the dismount. “You have to ski down the small slope at the end of the lift.” Krista barely had time to ingest my descriptions before it was time for her to slide down the embankment by herself—and for me to helplessly round the pulley circuit heading back down the mountain.

“Jam-shi-man-yo!” I called to the attendants. “Wait!” They hurriedly stopped the lift and quickly ran to my rescue as I sat there panting, mere inches from the slope’s drop-off.

Once on solid ground, I walked my skis close to where another attendant stood helping Krista to her feet. “Never point your skis down the mountain,” I instructed as she gathered her wits. “Always stay perpendicular. The goal is to make a zigzag.”

The ski lift had deposited us onto a small, nearly level feeder slope peopled with Sajo’s beginners, which led to the “real” bunnies—the last leg of an intermediate run higher up the mountain. Within a few feet of each other, Krista and I slowly crept our way from lift embankment to the feeder’s mouth, there to attempt crossing the fast-moving current of intermediate skiers.

This was the other thing I had dreaded while still on level ground: maneuvering into the flowing traffic of the bunny slope. Thus far I had been behind Krista, cheering her on while secretly trying to control my own somewhat uncontrollable skis. If I were going slow enough, and were on a flat enough run, I knew I could keep my speed an even pace. But out in the open, with faster moving obstacles, all bets were off.

“Can you cross over there?” I asked Krista when we had made it to the lip of the feeder; I pointed to an embankment on the far right side of the larger slope.

“You go ahead and I’ll follow you,” Krista replied. Exactly what I had hoped she wouldn't say. At her request, however, I slowly took the plunge.

In the sport of skiing a term is used when a skier falls fantastically down the mountain, leaving a trail of gear and valuables behind him: a yard sale. I was famous for my yard sales at Durango—and this was no exception. I had picked up too much speed and found myself slipping out of control. My rented equipment littered the snow as I tumbled stomach-first one hundred yards down the bunnies. Thanks to my right ski’s gap, it landed several tens of yards above me.

As I was falling down the mountain, Krista courageously tried to follow my lead, met with another fall of her own. I watched from farther below as members of the Korean ski patrol came by one-at-a-time to help Krista back onto her feet. Each in turn silently pantomimed a ski lesson for her: Pull yourself up like this. No, no, don’t pop your ski off. Point your skis like this. “Edg-ee,” one of them had said. Use your edges to turn.

I was feeling less and less like a ski instructor, unofficial or not, the longer I stayed on the mountain. Words continued to fail me and I was unsure how to avoid another demonstration of my limited skills. “I hope my instructions have been helpful,” I told Krista as soon as she rejoined me.

“You just forgot the part about the edges,” she sighed. “You’re supposed to push on your edges to turn.” I nodded my understanding and slowly, quietly, we began yet another descent down the slopes, me trailing behind to help her in the event of another fall.

After another string of falls and subsequent successful attempts to pull her back onto her feet, my pupil stopped. “I’m terrified, Jenn,” she said. She stood there perpendicular to the bunny’s incline, paralyzed in her ski boots.

It was like watching my own thoughts from eight years ago play out on someone else’s lips. “I’m mad at myself and exhausted from all of my falls,” she confessed. “I want to just take off my skis and slide down the mountain.” I told her that she certainly had a right to feel that way, yet needn't give up quite yet. She might not forgive herself if she didn't try at least one last time. Deliberately, she formed her skis into a wide A and started her run.

It was her last run of the day--and arguably the most successful. One hundred yards from the end of the bunny slopes, she took control of her skis and coasted all the way to level ground. Assah! 아싸! I stood on a side embankment watching proudly as she glided safely off the mountain.

Her face was beaming as I approached her moments later, herself exhausted but triumphant. “I’ll do this again in about a month,” she told me. “It'll take that long to fully recover.” Confidently we scooted to the edge of the snow, popped off our skis, and deposited them back with Sajo's attendants. This had been a glorious day.

There was another reason that made the day distinguished: Attempting to ski had been on “The List,” a group of personal goals for Krista to accomplish. It was only after we were tucked safely back in her apartment and I read The List on her wall that I realized the importance of the day. I may not have been the most well-versed ski instructor, but going skiing with her had thus helped my friend fulfill something purposeful in her life. And that felt better than any sort of accolade from friends back home.

Three's a Crowd

Sunday, January 16, my friend Young Sook (far left) brought me to her small church for a time of prayer, fellowship, and worship, Korean style. The coldest day of the year at -17 degrees Celcius (1.4 degrees F), we huddled warmly on the ondol floor in an apartment at the back of the sanctuary. It was in this tiny space, presumably the pastor and his wife's parsonage, that I met Jimin (center) and Jihyun (right), sisters five and seven years my junior, respectively.

As we prepared for a second service in the afternoon, Jimin started the list of polite questions that I've come to expect from Koreans: Where are you from? How old are you? and the like. Then I asked her one. "What kind of American food do you like?"

"Cream suh-pah-get-ty," she told me, beaming. "I love cream spaghetti."

I remembered the ample supply of spaghetti noodles in my pantry that I had inherited from a friend who had recently emigrated back to the States. "Would you like to come over for dinner this week? Tuesday?"

As soon as she heard my offer, Young Sook instantly wanted to come along. This also meant Jihyun would like an invitation, too. I briefly pictured my postage-stamp apartment in my head and shuddered to think how extra people might fit. "But I only have room for one other, maybe two other people," I protested.

My friend stood up in mock defiance and held up her hand as if she were pledging loyalties. "I'll stand!" she proclaimed.

"But what about Frankie?" I asked her, knowing how much she disliked him. She hadn't come over during the holidays just for that reason.

"Oh," Young Sook said sadly. "Fooh-rank-y."

"It's okay. I can put him away in the laundry room. He'll be fine." After a few more minutes to work out the details, everything was set: a dinner party at 7:30 P.M., Tuesday, the 18th for a place setting of four; the menu, cream spaghetti, spinach salad, and pan-fried hobak (호박)--a soft, neon green, zuccini-like squash that Koreans call "sweet pumpkin." It would be the first time so many people had come to visit my apartment in Korea.

I had just enough plates and bowls for each of us, if you counted the one oddly shaped, ivory-colored plate amid its porcelain white companions, and my collection of mismatched bowls. But I only had two pair of chopsticks, one knife, and two forks and spoons each. I also lacked sufficient glassware, possessing just two cups and three mugs. Making the entree and side dishes for four would be easy enough; however, my lack of adequate tableware posed a bit of a problem. As I served tea later that night, my three guests were given the mugs, while I happily sipped from my last clean bowl.

The night of the 18 arrived, expectation scenting the air of my apartment as I entered. After putting away my things from school and petting Frankie, I quickly dusted my cubby-hole bookshelf, cleared away the electronics from the T.V. stand that served as my dresser, and positioned my computer atop my short refrigerator. I then moved the stand to the middle of the room and arranged my four "chairs" around it--the corner of my bed, a small living room armchair, a gray and black folding chair, and my plastic red stool used for reaching the bar in my closet. A small space about a two feet wide was left open to the right of my huddled furniture, what could be used to squeeze in and out of. Provided that no one wanted to get up during the meal, we might have just enough room.

Once my guests arrived, Young Sook claimed the the corner of the bed; Jihyun, the folding chair across from me. Jimin sank into the armchair across from Young Sook and I took the remaining seat, my red stool. Situated as I was, I had only to twist to my right and take two steps to be in the kitchen stirring the food. If I twisted left, I could conveniently stack used plates and bowls on a portion of my bookshelf. If I needed something from the refrigerator across the room, I had only to ask Jihyun to find it. My apartment could fit a party of four, it seemed--though just barely.

L to R: Young Sook, Jimin, and me.

I knew how much Koreans savored tasty food, particularly how highly they valued the Western variety. This in mind, I had done my best to present an elegant, American-style dinner to my guests that evening, complete with homemade honey mustard dressing for the salad and store-bought flan (incorrectly labeled "pudding" on the package) as dessert's finishing touch.

Of my three friends, Jihyun was the most vocal in her reaction. "Mashisoyo!" she declared as we began the meal. It's so delicious! "Oh-tooh-keh?" What should I do? She was so impressed with the salad dressing that she asked which bottle it came from. When I confessed it had none, at Young Sook's sugestion she searched my refrigerator and cabinet for the deli mustard and sweet honey I had used, to take pictures of them for future reference. I hadn't the heart to tell her that the mustard had actually come from the States.

L to R: Jimin and Jihyun

Though I enjoyed the whole evening and its pleasant conversation, the thing I found most delicious was what came with our tea after dessert: lavender-colored blueberry roll cake from Paris Baughette, one of the foremost bakery's of the country. Its texture was spoungey-soft, with bits of blueberry in the batter and a light purple cream between the layers to hold it all together. Its flavor was tangy-sweet, berry-like yet buttery and fluffy. It felt as if I were eating my favorite color. Amazed at the delicacy in front of me, I declared, "It tastes like purple!"

I was happy the girls had brought the cake as a house-gift, yet much more happy to have them as guests in my home. If the adage is that "two's company [but] three's a crowd," four must double the camaraderie. I will gladly welcome their fellowship again, whatever spacial issues may come.