So it turns out that I cannot actually speak Korean. For most, this would come as no surprise, particularly when you are also aware of the fact that I have never taken a Korean language lesson. But, somehow to me, it is a surprise. It seems I have been living under what now appears to be a complete misapprehension: that simply be being in Korea I would pick up the language, in much the same way that a friend of mine was once convinced she would pick up Mandarin by watching Chinese TV. Well, that little delusion is over, with it becoming ridiculously apparent of late that I cannot speak Korean. At all. Like NOT ONE BIT OF KOREAN IS COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH.
I blame my hairdresser first and foremost for lulling me into a false sense of security re my Korean language skills. Last haircut, where I rather radically, went from longish hair and no bangs to rather shortish hair and big bangs) I was totally convinced that the hairdresser, who speaks no English, told me that I understood her Korean amazingly well. She told me this by pointing at her ear while pouring forth a number of Korean words very, very fast. However, when I recounted, proudly, this story to a Korean friend, she (who also wasted no time in telling me that the haircut would, hopefully, look better in a few months time) suggested that it was more likely that hairdresser was saying something more like: "You have ugly ears. I need to cut your hair in such a way that your ears are not visible to the world at large. You also have a lot of wrinkles growing on your forehead. Bangs are cheaper than Botox so I will now cut your hair to look exactly like mine because I am one hot Korean mamma. And please stop bringing your three snotty-nosed children into my store for their haircuts. They smell." Moving right along...
My coffee man. I also blame him for tricking me into thinking that I was getting somewhere with him (not in a romantic getting somewhere way (although he is quite cute) but in a language acquisition kind of way). This is the dude who, when I first started frequenting his shop two years ago for the most perfect of perfect espresso macchiatos, asked me why it was I had not bothered to learn his language. I thought we had overcome this initial frostiness and were in the process of taking our coffee relationship to a deeper level than just "Espresso macchiato ju se yo." (See I can say please in Korean). We have had conversations about the weather, kids (mine I think), how much we both like Australia, his girlfriend who is currently studying in Australia and why it is I don't need a takeaway lid on the takeaway cup (with three kids, I just slam that coffee down as fast as I can in the mornings). But when I introduced some friends to his shop (who now go there every day for their daily hit, affectionally called "Julie's" (for the extra dash of milk and half a teaspoon of sugar) I found out that coffee maker man does not really care for the weather, definitely has no interest in kids, has never been to Australia, does not have a girlfriend and is perplexed as to why it is that I refuse to take the lid for the coffee. Basically, it seems that he finds most of our interactions, so cherished by me, to be strange and just a little odd.
Ok, so perhaps I should have realised a little earlier that I could not speak Korean, a fact that has always been crystal clear when I have attempted to watch the highly, highly addictive Korean TV. Why are there advertisements that seem to be selling insurance and plastic surgery mixed together? What does white teeth have to do with washing powder? What is the significance of the falling fake flowers on the really cute couple advertising a department store? And, seriously, what is with the lady with the crazy eyebrows and puffy, tight face who manically slices up a turnip after washing her apples in washing detergent?
Then there are the day to day interactions where I completely fail to understand conversations happening around me when on trains or buses, buying groceries at the supermarket or drinking coffee at a coffeeshop, like I am right now. This confronting realisation - that I actually have no idea what is going on around me - brings me to despair (and perhaps slightly embarrasses me) when I think of my interactions with the local supermarket staff. I thought that we had jointly reached an understanding that I will never take a plastic bag and that I will always want the ten percent discount (mostly because I have no idea what happens if I say no I don't want it - do I get a prize instead at some point?). The same thing happens at the bread shop, where the staff continually ask for my phone number and I always give it to them though I have no idea why. I believe it is something again to do with reward points (and I am thankful for that loaf of sour dough bread that they gave to me for free once - $45 on average per week on bread (the three children really love their carbs) seems to be significant). It would also be really, really nice to understand why today, in an empty restaurant, the staff at the $7.00 bibimbap lunch place, forcefully recommended that my friend and I eat downstairs instead (downstairs would be at a totally different restaurant). After begrudgingly letting my friend and I in, (my friend was very persuasive) the staff stood, not so patiently, by our table, making sure we ate and did not talk. Bowls were cleared before we had even really finished them (although they were right to take away the bamboo basket with the gigantic green chillies on it (they must have sensed that we were just not tough enough) and we were ushered out in record time.
Yes, I should blame myself for this predicament and not the hairdresser, the coffee man and certainly not my Korean friends for failing to pass on their Korean language skills to me simply by hanging around with me. Yes, I could (and maybe should) take lessons like so many other admirable people are doing or have done. It might be nice just a day, or even an hour, to not be the confused, largely silent, freakishly smiling one (when in doubt, smile). But then maybe I don't really need to know what the couple wearing matching sneakers are fighting over, what the man in the dark blue suit on the mobile phone in the bus is saying, exactly what the mandu (korean dumplings) makers are yelling about or what the TV ad with the crazed turnip slicer is about. It does wonders for my imagination to make up the stories of their lives: the love-matchers are about to chose matching jackets to complete their ensemble. She wants navy blue. He wants purple leopard print with a faux fur hood lining; the man in the dark blue suit on the bus is explaining to his tango teacher that he will be late again today as he is taking some time off from his demanding job to record his first solo hip hop album; the male mandu maker wants to stop making mandu all day, every day and instead wants to turn his hand to hand cut noodles but the female mandu maker thinks that is a ludicrous idea and instead they should burn the joint down, take the insurance payout and head to Spain to continue practicing their newly acquired life drawing skills; and as for the crazed turnip slicing woman? OK, so I actually do really want to know the answer to this one. The biggest bonus of not understanding though is that, in my bubble, everything is happy and good. The coffee man, the local supermarket and the bread shop staff all love me. I don't think I really want to know otherwise so I shall just continue on as is (but perhaps with a change of hairdresser).
