If Three’s a Crowd, What’s Four or Five?

Not only was he tall, dark and handsome, but also endlessly charming. His short afro looked lumpy, and he often wore rumpled clothes, as if he’d just gotten up from a nap.  On anyone else it would have looked sloppy, but it only added to his allure.  In the same way that he moved easily among Asians, Africans, Europeans and Americans, he spoke in a mixture of French-accented English and Korean, sometimes adding a Portuguese word here and there.

A long-time resident of Korea, he’d become a well-known fixture in Seoul expat circles.  Women were immediately smitten by his flirty playfulness, and men were quickly put at ease by his clever banter. It wasn’t far-fetched to assume that he had a girlfriend in every province plus two or three more in Seoul.  A bit of a renaissance man, over the years he’d held several jobs ranging from IT to academia to the arts.  He seemed to know someone everywhere.

I once attended a party sponsored by the Angolan embassy.  He was there tirelessly twirling the women around the dance floor, and in between, schmoozing with the men.  At one point he noticed me at a table.  “Why are you sitting?  Come dance!”  It was less of a request, and more of a command.  He swung me so expertly to the rhythm of the intoxicating kizomba music, that he made me look like a pro despite my feeble partner dancing skills.  I giggled self-consciously and made a valiant effort to keep up.

One day we bumped into each other in the hallway leading to the toilet at Laurent’s wine bar, Le Moulin.  He struck up a conversation that went a bit deeper than the usual superficial small talk.  He discovered that, despite my baby face, I, like him, was in my forties.  In that instant, as if he’d just slid on a pair of new glasses, he began to see me differently. Although I was flattered by the belated attention, I was also wary.  Korean women can be very territorial.  If he had a Korean girlfriend (or two), I didn’t want to get caught up in drama. 

Late one September afternoon, I ran into him near Noksapyeong.  “Are you busy now? Come meet my friends in the park.”  He was headed to an evening picnic by the Han River.  We got off at the wrong station, and ended up having to walk more than a kilometer to the meeting spot.  He talked a bit about work, his family, his philosophy of life, and other things. He complained that he hadn’t had a girlfriend in a long time.  I was surprised because he was so popular, and more than a few women had crushes on him.  “Yes, everyone thinks I have so many,” he lamented. Dusk had fallen, and we walked along quietly on the dark, empty road. 

“What do you think of monogamy,” he asked, placing the accent on the last syllable of the word.  “It’s necessary,” I answered.  He sighed heavily, and went on a mini-rant about how frustrating it is to live in a world where so many people are unenlightened about relationships.  Monogamy is unnatural, and we should be free to love as many people as we want, he said. I didn’t say much, but in my head there was a lot going on.  I wanted to say, “If that’s what you’re into, cool, but you’re on your own with that.  Glad you mentioned it now before anything got started between us. Good luck finding someone.”  I’m not jealous by nature, but I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect mutual exclusivity from a romantic partner. 

It wasn’t ‘til much later that the irony of what he said dawned on me.  One minute he was complaining about not having had a girlfriend in a while, and the next, he was ranting about people not being more accepting of polyamory. How are you going to complain about not having one, then rant about people not being interested to be one of several?  Greedy.  Also, what flavor of polyamory is he into?  Had I been willing to step into that portal with him, would I have been sharing him with other men, women or both?  You know what?  It doesn’t even matter. ‘Cause I’m selfish, and everything isn’t meant to be shared. 

Turkish Freebie

The man at the counter at the kebab place in Itaewon remembered me from two weeks before and kept making eyes at me and cracking jokes.  These Turkish men sure know how to flirt.  He put meat in my falafel.  Thanks?  Perhaps he was trying to be nice and giving me a freebie.  Thanks? Thankfully, it was probably lamb, so I could just pick it out and eat the sandwich.  Had it been pork, I’d have to throw the entire sandwich away.

2015

The Pandemic has Driven me to Drink Cheap Vodka, Rumour Has it

For the first few months since I moved into my neighborhood, I’d pass by Yamaya daily, but never went in because, it’s a liquor store, so they have nothing for me there.  Then one day, on a quest for a bottle of melon soda, I stepped in and discovered that it had two entire aisles dedicated to food.  One was mostly chips, nuts, candy, dried fish and rice snacks.  The other, had all sorts of imported products from other Asian countries and Europe such as Indian curry, Thai guava juice, French cheese, Korean ssamjang, Spanish olives, Italian pastas, spices, and assorted canned goods.  All at great prices.  They didn’t have the melon soda I’d gone there looking for, but I found much more important stuff there.  I began making regular stops there on my weekly trips to the larger supermarkets.   

Fast forward to today.  Although I’m home most of the time, and can wash my hands with soap and hot water, I want some hand sanitizer to carry in my backpack for times when that’s not possible. Like last week when I used the toilet at Honjo Station and there was no soap at the sinks.  No, they hadn’t run out.  Some public toilets simply have no soap.  And the water is always cold.  Ugh!  A little 200 milliliter pump of hand sanitizer costs upward of 700 yen, even at the discount store.  No problem. I’ll make some. There are hundreds of recipes online for making your own hand sanitizer gel or spray.  Even the Centers for Disease Control website posted a recipe.  So I went on a quest to find alcohol, which is one of the main ingredients.  

One liter of rubbing alcohol goes for ¥1980 at Sugi pharmacy.  Daiso, the ¥100 shop, has none.  Yaoko and Belc supermarket prices are similar to those at the pharmacy.  So I decide to go for the next best thing.  The do-it-yourself recipes suggest a high-proof alcohol like vodka as an alternative to rubbing alcohol.  I go to Yamaya and find the vodka section.  I know absolutely nothing about vodka except that it originated in Russia.  (The only other time I’ve bought a bottle of alcohol was in Korea when I hosted the Kwanzaa celebration, and needed a bottle of soju to pour libations.)  I reach for the one in the pretty amethyst blue bottle.  Then I notice the princes ranging from ¥800 to ¥3500.  I put it back and grab the cheapest bottle (which is still much cheaper than the pharmacy’s alcohol).  I pick up a can of garbanzos (for tomorrow’s curry) and a box of Belgian tea cookies. 

As I head toward the register at the front, something catches my eye.  A black man!  I very seldom see anyone black people around here. Downton, once in a while, but here, no.  He must have felt my brown presence (or maybe it was my bright orange dress) because, right at that moment, he looked up. I bowed to him, and he smiled and bowed back.  He was handsome, dressed business casual, and sported a cleanly shaved head.  I turned down an aisle and thought, “That looks like Fumiko’s husband!”  She is the secretary of my former boss, who is married to a Black British man.  I hadn’t seen him in almost three years, so I couldn’t be sure.  I don’t remember him having a mustache, though.  Has he been working out?  I don’t remember him having such a nice build, either.  

Maybe it IS him.  Fumiko lives in my same city, so it very well could be him.  “Shit! Shit!  SHIT!”  I’ve shopped at Yamaya countless times, and the one day I go in to purchase liquor, I run into someone who knows that I don’t drink for religious reasons.  And here I am holding a big-ass 700 ml bottle of vodka looking like a right hypocrite.  Nobody would guess my reason for purchasing it. I try to stall so that he can go to the register first, but I’m lousy at that. There’s nothing to browse at.  Besides, I’m usually an in-and-out type of shopper.  It’s not so much that I don’t want him to think I’m a drinker, I’m more concerned that he’ll think I’m a liar, and therefore, a bad Christian.  There are more than enough dishonest ones around, I’m doing my best to be a good one, not perfect, but at least be a little better today than I was yesterday.           

Finally, I just go up to the cashier to pay.  If I hang around the store too long, I’ll start looking suspicious in a different way.  While I pay for my items, I see him walk out of the door followed by a thin, short-haired Japanese woman.  Hold up!  Fumiko is chubby and has shoulder-length hair.  Who’s he hanging out with at the liquor store??  You know what?  It’s none of my business.  

And yes, I don’t drink alcohol, but I do cuss on occasion.  Because (choose one) 

(a)  …like I said, I’m not perfect. 

(b)  …I’m grown.

(c)  …I can.

(d)  …you can run and tell that, but who would care?

June 8, 2020

Sexism in Korea

March is low season at the English Village.  That means that very few, if any, students came on campus.  Because of that, we teachers were outsourced to other places during that month through a program called Teach Away.  “Kimmy,” my Korean co-teacher, and I were assigned to work mornings at a home for adults with developmental disabilities in the countryside, and afternoons in an after-school program for the children of working parents----working mothers, really----in the nearby city.  It is common, sometimes even expected,* for women to quit their careers to become homemakers when they get pregnant, therefore, such programs exist for elementary school-aged children with two working parents. 

At the after-school center, children get help with homework, eat snacks, do art projects and other activities.  “Kimmy” and I were tasked with teaching simple English lessons and a craft activity.  One lesson example is we told them that spring was coming soon and asked them to tell us ten signs of spring. They’d say things like cherry blossoms, butterflies, green everywhere, etc.  We’d write their words on the board, then teach them the English equivalents.  After drilling the English vocabulary, we taught them a simple song about spring, then an age-appropriate spring-related craft:  cut leaves and flower petals out of construction paper to make a spring scene with the younger group, flower origami with the older group.  

Our classes were last, so children were collected by their parents right after our second class.  Two brothers, were often picked up late, so they’d hang around us while we erased the chalkboard, wiped down the low tables, collected supplies, and stacked cushions.  Since it was technically still winter, and Korean buildings are notoriously drafty, I always wore my long orange scarf during class.  Sometimes, while tidying up the classroom, I’d feel a soft tug-tug on my scarf, “Seongsemnim!  Seongsengnim (Teacher)!”  It was the younger of the brothers, a first grader.  I’d stop what I was doing, kneel to his level, and he’d ask me something.  If I understood the question, I’d answer. If I didn’t understand, I’d say, “Mulayo (I don’t know).”  He’d respond with a torrent of words.  I’d just nod my head and say “Ne...majayo (Yes...that's right).”  Satisfied, he’d then walk away.  This is something I love about the little ones, they are undeterred by the language barrier, so they just talk to me as if I understand everything.      

One day I commented to “Kimmy” how cute I thought he was, always tugging my scarf and asking questions.  She agreed that he was cute, then she lowered her voice as if she were about to share some scandalous gossip, “His mother is divorced!”  I was shocked.  Especially since, at barely 30, my co-teacher was much too young to have such an archaic attitude.  But then, she is the product of her culture.  This is a place where divorce is blamed on the woman no matter what caused the breakup, men almost always get custody (because they’re the breadwinners), a married woman (preferably a mother) is more valued than a single one, and divorced women have very little hope for re-marriage (especially if they have children).**  It’s understandable why women stay in abusive and toxic marriages, especially given that many will immediately plunge into poverty the minute they divorce. Of course, their social standing will also take a nose dive.    

A single woman over 30 is considered over the hill, so I also thought it was ironic that she was being judgemental of a woman according sexist standards that could also be used against her.  “Kimmy” did marry (and quit her job) a couple years later.  I heard that she suffered some sort of pregnancy loss.  A childless married woman?  Yet another factor this society uses to judge women by (even if it’s something out of their control, like a fertility issue).  By comparison, a childless, unmarried man of a certain age might be nagged good naturedly by family and friends to get with the program, but he is not being pressured and judged.  And his social standing depends more on his earning power and maleness rather than marital status or progeny.

*This is the reason why job applications ask one’s marital status. And it’s not uncommon (nor illegal) for women to be asked during job interviews if they plan on having children.  How they answer is often used to decide whether they’ll be hired. 

**This explains why you’ll sometimes hear about cases where divorced or single mothers will surrender their child to an orphanage to improve their chances on the (re-)marriage market

Korean Women Who Marry Foreigners

The following list is based on my observations over the years.  It’s not an exhaustive list, so there are probably other reasons that I’ve missed.  Some of these also apply to Japanese women who marry foreigners (especially items 1-3).

1. Women who fall in love (Ah, l’amour!).

2. Women who are considered over the hill (age 30+).

3. Women who are divorced (“damaged goods”).

4. Women who want pretty babies with big eyes and more European/less Asian features (shallow self-haters).*

5. Women who want to seem worldly and chic by having a foreign spouse.  

6. Women who aren’t considered pretty according to Korea’s narrow beauty standards.

7. Women who want to get away from the pressures and sexism of Korean society.

8. Women who don’t want to be stuck with a demanding mother-in-law.

9. Women who are in some way different, and therefore unattractive, to prospective mates and their families (including, but not limited to socio-economic background).

10. Women who …

*The irony of Number 4 is that Koreans with albinism are often bullied and othered for having the very features (fair skin, blond hair, light eyes) that are so admired in Europeans.

Foreign Men Who Marry Asian Women

1.  Men who fall in love (Ah, l’amour!).

2.  Men who want a docile, submissive wife (weak-ass jokers).   

3.  Short men or those who like to tower over their partner.

4.  Black men who want babies with mixed features (shallow self-haters).

5.  Men who want to show off and seem manly by having an exotic spouse.

6.  Men who aren’t considered attractive in their home countries.

7.  White men who revel in Asia’s white worship, and want to reap all the benefits that come with the privilege it affords (assholes).

8.  Weirdos who fetishize Asian women based on the copious amounts of Japanese porn they’ve consumed (losers).

9.  Socially inept men with no game back home.   

10.  Lonely or stupid military men who get trapped. 

Mystery Man

On November 29, 2015 I wrote the following in my journal:

I dreampt that I’d kissed him, so I had to make a list to remind myself not to get fixated on him. 

1.  He’s judgmental of those battling substance abuse.

2.  He’s uncomfortable talking about sexual topics.

3.  He has a very cut-and-dry, black-and-white view of life.

4.  He has made multiple jokes about women submitting.

5.  He speaks derisively about Mormons and Jehovah’s Witnesses.

6.  He has a very unhealthy lifestyle and no apparent desire for betterment.

7.  My continuing uncertainty about his sexual orientation

8.  Our age difference

9.  He mentions the Bible a lot (gave me flashbacks of my exes M & S).

I cannot, for the life of me, remember who this was about.  I’ve wracked my brain, and can only conclude that it was someone I knew in the U.S. before I’d moved to Korea. 

So, there’s a sexually repressed, possible gay, unhealthy eating, non-exercising, sexist

Bible thumper, who is intolerant of other religions, is ten years younger or older, doesn’t believe in grey areas, and is insensitive to people with substance addictions, who used to talk to me years ago.  My thirsty sub-conscience dredged him up for a kiss, I awoke and jumped out of bed to write a list to ensure that I wouldn’t give him a chance in the future. Whew!  Whoever he is, I’ve since completely blocked him out of my mind because nobody I can think of fits this description completely. There is one man who almost fits them all, but he exercises, and I don’t recall questioning his sexuality.

A Smile & a Wink

An ajeosshi almost fell out of his seat staring at Amanda, Martha and me.  When he was getting of the train, he smiled and winked at me.  It was cute.  Amanda and Martha thought it was hilarious.  Men in Seoul are braver about openly showing their admiration for or interest in us, as opposed to how men in Incheon check us out covertly.     

August 11, 2012

Murphy’s Law for a Vegetarian

There’s a Harmony Mart supermarket two blocks from where I live.  They always play really loud dance music.  I don’t linger long in the aisles because the frantic pounding can give you a headache.  I don’t understand why it has to be so ear-splittingly loud.   Often, there’s a tallish, chubby, mustachioed man wearing a white cap, bib apron and a headset who stands near the produce section announcing the specials of the day.  He always talks to me, but I shy away because everything he says (“Where from?”  Or “Are you teacher?”) is heard by all the staff and shoppers over the loudspeaker.

One day, he wasn’t wearing the headset.  So when he beckoned me to go talk to him, I went.  He greeted me, asked what meat I liked and promised to give me a good price.  I looked down and realized the meat display case was between us.  “I don’t eat meat,” I answered.  “No meat?!”  I shook my head.  He then switched to English, as if to convince me, “Steak is delicious!”  I shrugged my shoulders apologetically.  He shook his head in disbelief either at the fact that he’d met a nonmeat-eater or that his foolproof plan to seduce me with meat discounts had crumbled. 

Just my luck:  the one guy who wants to chat me up is a butcher.

October 2012

“Are you her father?”

We were practicing Handel’s Messiah and the choir was in need of more tenors and basses.  Each week the director asked us to invite friends who might want to sing with us.  I tried to recruit Uiyeol, who I’d noticed had a nice voice during song service in church.  He went twice, but was more interested in checking out the white women than singing.  Besides, he didn’t think he was good enough to sing with us (typical Korean perfectionism). 

Then I invited Mr. Ahn, who had serenaded me with a lovely rendition of ‘Love Me Tender’ one afternoon on the platform of Jemulpo Station.  He was in his 60s and had retired from working on a U.S. army base.  That’s where he’d learned how to speak English.  Ironically (or not), his speaking was more natural and correct than most of my Korean co-workers who had had formal language studies.   As we started up the hill toward the choir studio in Haebangcheon, he got a bit nervous.  “This place doesn’t look safe.  You must be careful,” he warned.

Each week, a different voice was tasked with bringing snacks we would eat during rehearsal break.  This week it was the altos’ turn.  I’d forgotten to purchase something in Incheon, so we stopped at a corner store near Bonnie’s Pizza.  The shop clerk looked us over silently as we entered.  When I was making my way to the register to pay for my boxes of cookies, he asked Mr. Ahn, “아버지세요?”  I stepped to the counter and said, “No, he’s not my father.”  Startled, he exclaimed in English, “You understand Korean?!”  I put the money on the counter and said, “Yes, and you’re rude.”  How dare he insinuate innuendo between sweet Mr. Ahn and me? 

Many Koreans believe that men and women cannot be friends. Also, people usually only have friends in their age group, so I understand that going somewhere together with Mr. Ahn must have raised eye brows.  However, every stupid thought that comes to your pea-sized brain need not come out of your mouth.  Had it not been so close to rehearsal time, I would’ve gone to a different shop for my snacks.  As we left, he apologized.  I gave him a dirty look.         

October 2012

Journal Excerpts From 09/2012, part 2

September 18:   Rudeness at the Store & Doing Business With the Seamstress

Tried to buy index cards at the grocery store, but the stationery section was closed.  A halmoni cut me in line all pressed to pay for two packs of gum.  Was she having a halitosis emergency?  I was just as annoyed at the cashier for taking her when I was standing right there.  I left my two items on the belt and I walked out of the store.  Went and bought some at Daiso where the service is great.  It’s run by an older couple and their son. 

Went to the seamstress at Jemulpo Station underground to get a hole in the navy Mizrahi dress (thanks, Charlene!) fixed.  She was friendly and unbothered by the language barrier.  The ajumma who she took ahead of me apologized several times and complimented my hair ((after asking if it was a perm).  The seamstress gave me what I thought was a root to chew on.  When I put it in my mouth I realized it was dried fish and I discreetly put it in my backpack.  As soon as I got outside I threw it away.

Went back home, got the orange sarong and my black fish print tunic.  Returned to the seamstress.  Had her mend a tear in my flower print summer dress.  Then gave her the sarong and tunic.  She knew what I wanted.  It will cost ₩20,000 because she’ll have to create a pattern.  It will be ready on Friday. 

Gave Elvis, my co-worker, two dresses and a blouse.  He’s collecting clothes for a project in RSA.  Ten hours after I had had the squid leg in my backpack my shawl and other stuff still smell of it.  ¡Ufa!

September 20:   Horny Ajeosshi

My 8 pm class is all men from the same company.  They’re all married and in their 30s and 40s, so Martha and Amanda refer to it as my ajeosshi class.  During today’s class I was running out of steam, so I pulled up a stool to do the speaking drills.  ‘Smith,’ who was sitting near me said something I didn’t understand, so I asked him to repeat.  Turns out he had said “Sharon Stone” referring to her famous scene in the movie Basic Instinct.  I was wearing a brown, ankle-length linen dress.  How did the horny bastard come up with that image based on how I was dressed? 

Kissing Korean

I’ve discovered a disconcerting trend in Kdramas, so I’ve written this open letter to Korean men:  Just wanted to let you know that if we ever fall in love, things are going to be a little different than what you’re used to.  For starters, don’t even think of doing that wrist-grab move on me.  It’s not cute, and I will slug you if you do.  Second, if you kiss me and/or hug me, don’t be shocked when I kiss and hug you back.  Where I’m from, these activities are reciprocal, not one-sided.  Oh, and it’s creepy to keep your eyes open during a kiss, so close them when our lips meet (but not ten seconds before...that’s weird).  


I honestly don’t know if it’s a cultural thing or just the fault of daft drama directors, but that’s not how we roll in the rest of the world.  So if you ever get the urge to taste a bit of international flavor, take these things into consideration.  Gomopda.  

[Edited to add:  I'm fairly certain that it's the daft drama directors.]

Language Triumphs

When learning a language, there comes a moment when you stop and say to yourself, “Check me out!  I’m talking and people understand me!”  Not necessarily in a boastful way, it’s more the realization that you’ve passed the threshold of long pauses, searching for an elusive phrase or vocabulary word.  It also does not mean that you’ve reached fluency and there’s no need for more study.  It just means that you see yourself communicating without as much effort.  You can relax when talking.  Opening your mouth doesn’t fill you with apprehension.

For me, that moment came for the first time when I was studying in Paris.  I was walking around La Cité Internationale Universitaire somewhere between the Denmark and India dorms with some classmates and made a joke.  Everybody laughed.  I was both pleased and surprised that they’d understood and found it funny.  I don’t remember the joke, but, knowing me, it was probably corny, thanks to having inherited my father’s dorky sense of humor. 

Another time was when I ran into Kabongo, one of the campus dragueurs.  “Hey! Haven’t seen you in a long time,” he said leaning in for les bises (ugh).  I told him that I had moved out of India dorm (true).  Where had I moved to, he asked.  Right here, the Netherlands dorm, I said (lie).  What room?  Room 246 (lie), I said without batting an eyelash.  He then said he had some business to take care of, but would come visit me in the afternoon. “D’accord,” I said.  The truth was that I was at the Netherlands dorm leaving my suitcases because from there, I’d be heading to Gard du Nord Station to begin my back packing trip around Europe.  I was surprised that I was able to lie so easily and convincingly in French.  I hope when he knocked on Room 246 it was a male student who answered the door. 

         

Fast forward to the present.  I’ve never liked eating with students.  They’re noisy and I prefer peaceful, quiet lunches.  But in Japan, teachers are expected to eat with them.  The first two years were okay.  After all, kids can’t get too wild at a small junior high school.  Then I moved and began working at two elementary schools.  The noisiest of lunch times are elementary school lunch times.  At first I thought I’d get indigestion from all the shouting, spoons clattering on the floor and general mayhem typical of lunch time in an elementary classroom.  But when the students got used to me, they began talking and asking questions.  My proudest speaking moments were in those little exchanges we had. Grades one to three are the best because they were not shy and just speak to me without wondering if I understand. 

“Sensei, when is your birthday,” a second grader asked.  I told her the month.  She nodded and said, “Tomorrow is my younger sister’s birthday. She will be five years old.”  Really?  That’s nice!  And when is your birthday?  Before she could answer, we got interrupted by a boisterous nosepicker swinging his white smock above his head like a helicopter. 

Or the time I did an alphabet lesson with the first graders.  After the drills, chants, singing and game, each one received their initial letter on a sheet of A4paper.  “Take out your crayons,” I instructed.  They scurried to get crayons out of their back packs.  One little girl approached me with her brow furrowed and whispered, “Lindo-sensei, I don’t have crayons.  I have colored pencils.”  Colored pencils are alright, I assured her.  “Iro enpitsu daijobu desu.”  Upon hearing that, she skipped back to her table and began coloring. 

Beautiful Bald Koreans with Tats

Before moving to Korea, I didn’t feel one way or the other about men with facial hair, bald heads or tattoos (as long as they weren’t on the face).  There, however, almost everyone is clean shaven and tattoos are still seen by some as taboo.  Bald heads are more likely to be seen on old men than young men who have shaved their heads.  With so much sameness every day, a guy with a little mustache and goatee stands out.  The same for a young man with tats or a shaved head.  If you walk around Itaewon on a Saturday or Sunday night, you’ll see more than a few of them.  I suspect that most of them are kyopos. 

Although this is not a look I was previously into, I became attracted to it.  When I mentioned this to Samantha, she said it made sense.  I’m not into prepubescent looking men.  I like men who display secondary sex characteristics.  I cracked up at her comment, but there’s some truth to it.  The Korean beauty ideal for men is not what the West would describe as particularly masculine.  And while I may not be trying to date Mr. Olympia, I do appreciate masculine traits in a man.    

Dating in Asia, part 1 of 3

Dating in Asia can be great, horrible or meh depending on one’s methods and what one wants out of those encounters.  Mine have been few and fall mostly into the meh category.  My situation is unique because I don’t use dating apps, wasn’t in my twenties when I moved to Asia, and, while my exes are a diverse group, with the passing of time, my preference has narrowed down to Black and Latino men.  Also, I don’t care to date military men.  In Korea, that left me with students, factory laborers or fellow teachers from a handful of African nations.  Or, at least, the ones who aren’t pursuing local women.  

At first I didn’t mind much because I was new and getting my bearings, working, developing my friend circle, getting to know the culture and all that.  But once you get settled and in your routines, you begin to long for someone special in your life.  These are the guys I dated in Korea and Japan: 

The Nigerian man who hated Korea.  We met up for bagels and tea in Itaewon.  He’d graduated from a Korean university and spoke fluent Korean, but hated everything about the country.  He spent the entire date bashing Korea and its people.  While I agreed that Korean thinking can be backwards and their ways of doing things illogical, he made a poor first impression.  He should have saved the ranting for when we knew each other better.  Nobody enjoys spending time with a Negative Nelly.  He later moved to Japan.  When I also moved there, I didn’t let him know.  Based on posts he’s made on a Facebook group we both belong to, I think he likes Japan better than Korea.

*The Korean man who wanted me to break the law.  We had lunch at a nice buffet restaurant in Cheongnyangni.   Conversation was comfortable and pleasant.  Afterward we texted each other a few times.  We both looked forward to meeting again.  Then he told me that he had a friend who lived near me who needed a private English teacher. Could he pass my number on to him?  I told him that Korean immigration laws do not allow for side jobs.  Your visa is exclusively tied to your job.  “He can pay any price you ask,” he said.  I thanked him for the offer, but I didn’t want to jeopardize my legal status.  That was our last conversation.  He ghosted me.  Ghosting is super-common among younger Koreans because it avoids conflict and requires no social skills.  It’s irritating, however, when grown-ass adults in their 30s and 40s are still employing that cowardly practice.  It could also be that he was embarrassed for asking me to do something illegal, but, get over it, nobody ever died of embarrassment. 

*The Angolan who wanted a hip hop girl.  We had Mexican food on our date.  We’d met in my kizomba class.  He was an employee at the Angolan embassy.  He was alright, but I think his idea of a Black woman from the U.S. was strongly informed by rap videos.  I did not fit the image of the hiphop girl he’d hoped for.  I ran into him a dance class a few times after that.  He greeted me without being awkward, and even asked me to dance.   

Dating in Asia, part 2 of 3

*Mr. Schlongtastic.  This guy seemed really promising.  He appeared mature and ready for a serious relationship.  Our first date was at a South African restaurant.   We’d had good conversations.  After that he said he wanted to make lunch for me.  I’d never been to his part of Gyeonggi province, so I agreed to make the 40-minute bus trip.  He met me at the bus station from which we took a taxi to his place.  He was giving the driver directions in English and getting angry that the man didn’t understand.  Finally, I told him to tell me, and I gave the driver directions in Korean.  How can you be living there so long and not know simple phrases like “Turn right, please. Go straight. Turn left.” Also, shouting at someone in English doesn’t magically make them understand what you’re saying.  Strike One. When I arrived at his house, he hadn’t begun cooking and his pots were dirty.  He then took a chicken out of the freezer.  He’d forgotten that I’m a vegetarian.  And even if I hadn’t been, did he expect me to be there long enough for a frozen chicken to thaw and be cooked?  Strike Two. 

We sat on the sofa to watch azonto music videos.  I looked over, and his penis was out.  His erection was HUGE in girth and length.  I guess he was trying to impress me.  Quite the opposite; it frightened me.  It was the width of my wrist, and I’m not a small woman.  I was sure if that thing had entered my body there would have been serious internal damage.  Strike Three.  After that I began eyeing the door to figure out what knobs to turn to make a quick getaway. 

I suggested he give me a tour of his neighborhood, and he agreed.  Phew!  We walked toward the center of town and ended up back at the bus station.  When he saw me go toward the ticket window to purchase my return ticket, he begged me to spend the night.  “Nothing is going to happen,” he pleaded.  Nope.  Afterwards, he texted and called to apologize and ask for another chance.  “You’re so beautiful that I couldn’t help myself.”  When I stopped responding, he called me from his second phone.  I knew it was him.  He’d forgotten that he’d told me that he had two phones.  He said that he was feeling blue because his older sister’s breast cancer had returned.  “So sorry to hear that.  I’ll keep her in my prayers,” I responded flatly.  You ain’t clever. He sent messages on WhatsApp and KakaoTalk.  They alternated between inspirational Bible verses and short porn videos.  

One Sunday evening after choir rehearsal in Haebangchon, I accompanied my friend Arthur, who was taking the piano keyboard from the church basement where we practiced back to the choir studio.  There was Mr. Schlongtastic having a beer with a buddy on the deck of the CU convenience store next door to the choir studio.  He hopped off the deck and came over all smiles, “Hey! Long time! How have you been? So nice to see you!” Then Arthur, who’s a tall, dark, muscley Nigerian, emerged from the studio to get the keys from me.  The smile faded. Arthur said hello, took the keys and went back inside.  “It was nice seeing you again,” he said and went back to his perch dejectedly.      

Arthur had no idea what had happened until I filled him in afterwards on our way to kizomba class at Le Moulin.  “Thanks for your help,” I said.  “I didn’t do anything,” he chuckled.     

Dating in Asia, part 3 of 3

*The Korean who lied about his marital status.  We met on the first day of Kwanzaa at Zion, a club that plays reggae and Afro-pop, which a friend had dragged me to.  When he came over to chat me up I asked him if he was married and or had children.  He said no.  Two dates later, he confessed, “You have an honest face, so I must tell you.  Remember when you asked me if I had a wife and if I had children?  I do.”  So I’m like, Thanks for the belated honesty.  It was nice knowing you. He then went on to tell me that he was unhappy with his fat wife (I saw her photo; she was barely chubby.) and was only waiting until his younger child finished high school to divorce her (six years).  Then he would marry me and we could have a baby together.  Don’t know how I didn’t laugh in his face at that last part.  There are too many men in the world for me to sit around waiting for a married one.  And how stupid do you think I am to fall for these promises?  We’d hadn’t known each other long enough for me to become emotionally attached. 

And if I hadn’t had “an honest face” how long would he have continued leading me to believe that he was free and single?  This man was tenacious.  After I made clear that I wouldn’t see him again, he called me regularly to try to convince me to give him a chance.  When I stopped answering his calls, he sent me text messages every day saying that he missed me and KakaoTalk messages professing his true love.  This continued for about a year and a half.  Then I moved to Japan, and my Korean phone number went to someone new, so my KakaoTalk account, which was attached to that number, was disabled. 

*The European who bored me to death.  I met him on my way home, one night, standing on a median trying to cross a multi-lane street.  He greeted me and introduced himself as an engineer from Greece who worked at the shipbuilding company across town.  I’d guess he was in the 45-55 age range.  I accepted his invitation to meet up at Starbucks the next night.  Conversation was underwhelming, and his Korean was better than his English, which meant that I had to concentrate really hard to understand him.  I decided to give him another chance because he had seemed nervous. Maybe next time he’d relax and be better.

When our schedules finally lined up, I trudged through freshly fallen 40-centimeter deep snow to his huge, sparsely furnished three-bedroom apartment.  He served me snacks.  I found myself carrying the conversation until he turned on the television to watch CSI (police procedurals are not my thing, but the Korean subtitles gave me good reading practice, if nothing else).  When the second episode ended, he was surprised I was ready to leave. He said he’d enjoyed my company, and now that I knew where he lived, I was free to come any time, even when he wasn’t there.  Then he caressed my face in a way that felt kind of creepy.    

A year later I ran into him while buying strawberries at Home Plus and he asked why I hadn’t called him.  My phone number had changed, I said (it had).  To which he responded, “Yes, but my number is still the same.”  He had a point. 

*The military officer who wasn’t done playing the field.  I was introduced to him by the same person who had dragged me to Zion.  He was a handsome divorced father of three.  The second child’s birth with another woman was the catalyst of his divorce.  The third child was only a few months younger than the second.  He’d gotten a Korean woman pregnant less than two months after his arrival in Korea.  [How can you be so reckless with your penis?  As if STIs don’t exist.]  He was upfront about all this information.  His line of questioning made our first date feel like an interview. So much so that, at one point, I asked him if he was interviewing for a nanny.  He laughed and said no, but he’d like to have custody of all his children and wants to make sure that whoever he marries is okay with handling mothering duties.  Oh, I see.  He was interviewing for a wife.  

Even knowing all of this, I continued to talk to him.  When I asked him why he had cheated on his wife and he said that he did not know.  He had wanted to work things out and stay together, but she was through.  We had really interesting conversations.  Intelligence in men is very attractive to me.  Unfortunately, his intelligence didn’t extend to what he did with his penis.  I discovered that two of the women I used to hang out with (including the one who’d introduced us) had been his sexual partners.  No sloppy seconds for me, thank you.  Also, he had mentioned that he expected his wife to live in the same house as his mother.  I don’t know much about Liberian culture, but I know that two women cannot be in charge of the same household.  As I visited him on the air force base, I began to realize that the whole idea of being a military spouse is unappealing to me.  To have a government entity dictate what I can’t and can do and when I can do it is not something I’d want to sign up for.  Initially, I’d had other reasons for not wanting to date an active duty military man, but now I had more reasons to add to the list.  Still, it took a conversation with my girl Aisha to solidify in my mind that this dude was NOT the one for me.   

Since Japan has less restrictive immigration laws, there were more options, but I was living in a very rural area, with little chance of meeting anyone until I began making regular trips to Tokyo.  Men in my small village were out of the question because if I’d dated any of them, EVERYONE would have been in my business. 

Imagine my surprise when I found myself with three dates booked for the weekend at the end of Golden Week.  Saturday night dinner with a Ghanaian on a diplomatic visa, Sunday brunch with a Sao Tomean graduate student and a coffee date with a Japanese man who’d lived in Australia for seven years.   While fun at the time, that’s not something I would do again.  Although all of them were casual dates, it was too much to keep track of.  I don’t know how my gay neighbor was booking six dates per two-day weekend whenever he went to Tokyo.  It was exhausting just to hear about.