Don’t be too Proud of Yourself

The international high school I taught at in Korea, provided free rides to and from the airport for all teachers who traveled during winter or summer breaks.  So when I was preparing to fly back to the U.S. for a visit, I asked the school secretary to add me to the list of airport runs (she and her husband, the principal, were the main ones shuttling people back and forth).  They were too busy, she said.  Busy doing what?  The school was closed.  She came up with a bunch of bogus excuses as to why they couldn’t do for me what they were doing for everyone else.  Finally, they said that Pastor Ha (his real name, and truly a joke of a pastor) would be driving into Seoul for a meeting the morning of my flight and could drive me to the airport bus stop on the way.  Ha was, among other things, untrustworthy. There was no way I was going to rely on him to take me anywhere.  Besides, he was leaving for Seoul at six for his eight o’clock meeting.  I had to leave by five to get to the airport in time for check-in.  Okay, I said. 

The school provided this service for its teachers because they were helpless.  They were an insular group with few, if any, friends outside the school.  They depended on the three Korean staff members for EVERYTHING.  The social studies and science teachers had even taken the male kyopo staff member to their gynecologist appointments.  They didn’t travel on the train alone, had never been on a public bus, spoke no Korean other than basics like thank you and hello, and couldn’t read.  And they were not newcomers.  Some had been there for five or six years.  Perhaps she thought I’d be stranded without their ride.  Ha!  Not only could I read hangul, I’d been living and working in Korea for more than a year before I’d gotten to that school.  I was used to riding buses and trains on my own.  I’d show them.    

The night before my flight, I finished packing my suitcase, cleaned my apartment, and waited ‘til quarter to five in the morning.  I hate talking on the phone in Korean because I can’t see the person’s face for non-verbal cues, but I had no choice.  I called the local taxi company.  The phone on the other end rang and rang.  Oh, no! Please pick up!  Then a sleepy voice answered.  I told him where I was and where I wanted to go, and he said he’d be there in about 15 minutes.  I slapped a sticky note to my door telling Ha thanks, but I’d made other arrangements, and rolled my suitcase down to the main gate. 

As promised, the taxi pulled up to the gate. I placed the suitcase in the trunk and got in the back seat.  I was so proud of myself!  I’d successfully requested a taxi by phone!  I reveled in my new accomplishment. There was probably a cheesy grin on my face.  When we arrived at the train station, I paid the fare, jumped out and ran.  I was half way up the escalator when I heard shouting down below.  I looked down and it was the taxi driver waving his arms at me.  I got to the top and went back down to discover that, in my rush, I’d left my suitcase in the trunk.