An Autumn Duet in Korea

Hello readers! I felt inspired lately to do a story outside of my previous published works. To that end I wrote this story, which you have just opened and clicked on. It's a bit more personal in nature, and I suppose less...hardcore than stories I have written before. This is the first chapter of this story, and I hope that you enjoy it. Any comments and constructive criticisms are welcome!

MaiaEmpire

My final semester of college ended with a flurry of whispers, followed by a whimper. Ever since I was a little girl who picked up a violin for the first time, I had always had that pipe dream of being a professional musician and joining a world-famous orchestra. To that end, I had migrated from my small Midwestern town to enroll in a university in Chicago to pursue that goal. I ended up double-majoring in music and literature, though performing was always my central focus. I had it all planned out -- complete my bachelor's in music, move on to a master's program or conservatory, and eventually get hired by an orchestral company to reap the accolades. Easy peasy.

Midway through my last term, I stopped by the mail room on the way back from rehearsal when I received a response letter from my top choice for a post-graduate music program. I rushed back to my dorm room and practically ripped open the envelope. My heart racing, I began to read.

To Elizabeth Anderson

Thank you for your interest in our Fall Music Conservatory program, and for your enthusiastic application. We regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you enrollment in our program. The competitive level of our application pool required us to make some difficult decisions given the number of petitions we are able to fill. We hope that you will consider applying in our following application season...

I remember collapsing onto the edge of my bed as the rejection letter fell from my hands. I recalled clutching my violin case vainly, trying to assure myself that even though this was my first choice, that other options existed. I had sent out a lot of applications, I told myself. It took quite a few hours and quite a few tears before I forced myself to come to this conclusion.

That was the beginning of a trickle of even more rejections into my mailbox. I came to dread checking my mailbox or email, fearing yet another sting as my future seemed to chip away. Distraught, I set up a meeting with the music program advisor, a silver haired conductor who had clearly been receiving similar visits as despondent aspiring musicians filtered in with the same burning question as they approached graduation.

"Professor, what did I do wrong?" I asked him as I sat in his crowded office, with sheet music scattered about his desk.

"It's a very competitive field, Ella. There are many applicants for every single position out there." He shrugged helplessly. "This happens every spring."

"But Professor," I started, "I've been First Chair for most of my time here. I practice so much, and I work so hard."

"And I know you do," he nodded indifferently, while quickly glancing at his computer screen.

I shrugged in vain. "Is there something wrong with me? Am I just not that good?"

The professor clicked with his mouse at something on the screen. Opening a new email, probably. "Ella, you are exceptionally talented. You wouldn't be First Chair if I didn't think so. You have a proficiency, but there's more to performing than that."

I held my breath. "More to it?"

He clicked the button once more, and then turned to look at me, gravely. "There is more to performing than just simply playing the notes, than just playing accurately. Yes, you are very proficient, but you have a tendency to be too mechanical in your playing. There's just, for lack of better word, a passion that you are missing."

I sat stunned, feeling my eyes burn. "Are you saying I'm just playing by rout?"

The professor turned back to his monitor uncomfortably. "Not at all. But a lot of these programs expect more than just raw talent. I can't speak to what they look for in candidates. I'm sure if you keep applying, something will happen for you." He then started typing something into his keyboard, almost as an excuse to end the conversation.

I walked out of the meeting, feeling as if something inside of me had died. The polite yet devastating dismissal ached and a great wave of depression was beginning to set in. With my credits I was all set to graduate in May, but that was the moment I began to neglect practicing. It began to hurt just to pick up my bow. Even during our final spring performance, I was numb and though I hit every single note on the page, my heart wasn't in it. I emotionlessly congratulated my fellow orchestra members as they chattered about their plans for the fall, but out of shame I remained silent about my own plans.

As the end of the year approached, I began to feel that perhaps I needed to distance myself from music, at least for a little while. I simply didn't have the drive. I explored my options; going back to Iowa to live with my parents was not on my list, and I even considered staying in Chicago to get a job somewhere for the summer. Even bussing tables felt preferable to looking at a sheet of music at this point.

However, during a meeting with a counselor at our campus career center, she asked me about my literature major, and asked if I had ever considered English teaching. I explained I was simply an avid reader and didn't think it could lead to a career. She explained that there were many countries out there that needed English as a second language teachers, which typically amounted to a year's contract in some exotic locale. She made it sound like a grand adventure, and I was very intrigued. Thinking that this perhaps could be my opportunity to take some time away from my music, I contacted an agency that specializes in ESL placement.

The agency was quite accommodating, and offered contracts in many countries. I had little interest in living in a tropical location, Europe was too expensive, and being sequestered in a compound in the Middle East was simply not an option despite their lavish pay. It was at this point the recruiter suggested South Korea. It was modern, eager for new teachers, and offered a generous wage. To hell with it, I thought to myself, and signed up.

I told my mother and father about my plans when they came for my graduation ceremony. They were skeptical at first, insisting that I should continue to pursue my music. After a long conversation, I convinced them that a hiatus from music is what I needed for now, and that an adventure overseas is simply something that you should do while you're young. In the end they supported me, and after collecting my diploma we drove back home to Iowa.

I spent the next month and a half preparing my paperwork as the agency contacted a school named Joy Academy and organized my visa. There were training modules I took online as a sort of crash course in teaching. I had given violin lessons part time before, though I suppose I was a bit nervous about being in front of an entire classroom. Part of the adventure, I told myself. My paperwork was finalized in July, and my airline ticket, provided by my school, was arranged.

I packed my humongous wheeled suitcase as full as it possibly could be. The agency explained that South Korea offered much of what could be found in the United States, but I didn't want to take any chances, stuffing as many bras and novels inside as I possibly could. As I slung my laptop case over my shoulder and prepared to haul my suitcase to the car, I looked back at my violin case, sitting upright on the chair in my room. The pit of my stomach churned, but I simply turned and left it behind.

My parents and I drove back to Chicago for my flight. The road trip was our last outing as a family for a while, and once we pulled into the departures gate at O'hare International the three of us collectively realized how far apart we would be as we choked back tears. I gave my dad the biggest hug I could, and he went to unload my monster of a suitcase. I turned to hug my mom, as I saw her stealthy pull out something from the trunk.

It was my violin case. I had no idea how she managed to sneak it into the car without me knowing.

"But Mom," I stammered, "why did you --"

"Listen, Ella," Mom objected. "I know how you are feeling about your music now. I know how much you loved to play, and I know how much it hurts. But this is a big part of you, and when you are ready to play again, it needs to be there for you."

"Aw, Mom," I weakly contested as she placed it into my hands. I knew she was right.

"Besides," Mom smirked, "I spent far too much money on this thing, and I will not let it sit in your room for a year!"

We both laughed, and practically knocked each other over as we hugged. We were both wiping away tears when we pulled away from each other. Pulling my suitcase behind me and clutching my nearly-abandoned violin, we went to check in at the Korean Air desk and to make my way through security, with one final wave to my parents.

The flight was grueling; a short stopover in Detroit followed by fourteen hours to Seoul. Thankfully I was slim enough to have a decent amount of space in my seat, though the old lady sitting next to me kept falling asleep against me and snoring into my long brown hair. Eventually I gave up pushing her away, and managed a couple of hours of fitful sleep between bouts of panic and uncertainty. Occasionally I would glance at the overhead compartment which held my violin case.

Though I left on a Tuesday afternoon, I ended up arriving on Wednesday evening because of the time zone change. I was exhausted and frazzled, and as I lurched out to the arrivals gate I thankfully saw a Korean man in a suit holding a sign with my name.

"Erizabess? Erizabess Anderson?" he asked in a gruff, Korean accent.

"Uh, yeah. Call me Ella."

"Of course, Erra. This way."

He was a contact working with the agency, and his job was to get me from the airport to the bus station or wherever I was supposed to go. My brain was mush at this point, so I was thankful the driver spoke very little to me. We drove from Incheon airport to the bus station in the center of Seoul, and I idly looked upon the dark mountains and the lit up buildings as we drove past. Seoul was much bigger and sprawling than I imagined.

It was a further two-hour bus ride to Wonju, the city where my school was located. It was due east of Seoul, and though small by Korean standards, the population was over 300,000 people. Quite different from the little towns in the cornfields of Iowa. As soon as I had managed to drift off to sleep, an announcement was made and the lights shot back up. We had arrived, and I cursed the universe for denying me sleep once again.

I stumbled out of the bus, haggard and utterly lost. I sensed the folks around me staring at the disheveled foreign girl with a suitcase far too large for her and hugging a violin case for dear life. I was about to dig out any contact information I had written down from my various emails in a vain attempt to figure out where I was. As I pulled out scraps of paper, I heard a voice which was far different than the chattering of Koreans at the bus station.

"Hallo! Hallo! Are you Elizabeth?"

I turned to see an older woman waving at me. She was clearly not Korean; she was short with a bob of dark reddish hair and pale, freckled skin. She was dressed in a long coat, with a floral scarf around her neck. She wore large brown glasses and a wide smile. With the greatest feeling of relief I had ever left, I gave an exhausted wave, and dragged my suitcase to this wonderful savior of mine. She took my cheeks into her hands in a motherly way.

"Oh, my dear, you look so tired!" she doted. "I am Maretha Jacobs, the lead English teacher at Joy Academy. Mr. Lee, the owner, asked me to come pick you up. Have you eaten?"

"A little. But I am just simply exhausted," I wailed.

"Well, let us find a taxi and get you to bed. We have your apartment all set up - I live only a few blocks away from you - and I think they may have put a little food in the cabinet for you. Can you walk?"

I laughed weakly. "Probably. Just aim me towards a pillow!"

We walked to the taxi station, as Maretha continued talking. "We were expecting you earlier today, but we were not given an exact time by the agency. But we can hopefully get you some sleep!"

I merely nodded, as I was about to load my suitcase into the car when Maretha barked at the taxi driver to load it into the trunk for me. She jabbered some broken Korean to the driver once we were in the back seat, and we were off. Maretha continued explaining some potentially useful information to me, but I was nodding in and out of consciousness too much to understand what was going on. We pulled in front of a small three story building near the corner of a small park, and without a word the driver dashed to the truck to carry my suitcase to the second floor apartment, above a little convenience store.

Maretha unlocked the second apartment on the right and handed me the keys. It was a modest studio with bare white walls and an elevated faux wooden floor. There was a secondhand bed, a wardrobe, and a desk inside, opposite a modestly sized kitchen fit for one. There were a few bags of random foodstuffs sitting on the metal counter next to the sink, as well as a few towels, sheets, blankets, and a couple of pillows. There was even a decently sized TV, though it was not plugged in.

After giving me a brief tour of my new apartment, Maretha informed me she would see me in the morning to make sure I at least got some breakfast. She offered to help make my bed, though I politely declined. With a warm smile, Maretha took my cheeks one last time and left me to my own devices until she returned in the morning. Not even glancing at the food on the counter, I pushed my bags into the corner, and tossed a sheet and a pillow on a bed. I simply stripped down to my panties and collapsed face-first onto my bed. I was unconscious in mere moments.

I woke up quite early the next day, something that rarely happens since I am most definitely not a morning person. Most likely the jet lag. I spent the morning unpacking my meager possessions, hanging up my clothes in the wardrobe, connecting my laptop, and unloading my toiletries into the bathroom. And by bathroom, I mean a booth-sized room with a toilet that doubles as a shower stall. As I awkwardly used the hand shower to hose off in my booth of a bathroom, I noticed a few other idiosyncrasies of the apartment. For example, my fake wood floor contained a water pipe heating system underneath that worked extraordinarily well, and a back deck which was 2 feet wide and about 14 feet long. There was a washing machine with buttons written in only Korean housed there, and a mess of hooks which I assumed were to hang my wet laundry since there was no dryer.

After getting a semblance of order to my new apartment, there was a knock at my door. Maretha was there, wearing a brand new silk scarf. Together we walked to her apartment, which was only minutes away. Her place was a bit more cramped than mine, but lived-in and cozy. Books were scattered about and the walls were well decorated with art and pictures of family. She prepared a light breakfast of toast, eggs, and tea, and we properly introduced ourselves to each other.

It turns out Maretha was a mother of three boys from Johannesburg, South Africa. A former librarian and a proud Boer, she had a messy divorce and since her boys were in their teens she decided to get a fresh change of scenery and work abroad like she had always dreamed of. She had briefly worked in Sri Lanka and Thailand until settling in Korea over a year ago. Her first language was Afrikaans, and though her English was fluent she had a fiery accent. We shared a love of books, though I changed the subject when she brought up my violin case.

After breakfast, the next order of business was to introduce myself to the staff of Joy Academy. It was another short walk to the school, and I was first introduced to Mr. Lee, an older man who was the owner of the academy. He was a former teacher, who was full of smiles and perhaps a bit too proud of his English ability, though I remained tactfully silent as he pronounced my name as "Erizabess" and "Erra." I got the feeling that this was something I would have to get used to during my stay in Korea.

It may be prudent to explain just how the English as a Second Language industry works in Korea. Years ago, it was revealed that Japanese students were out-testing Korean students on English aptitude tests. As Japan was Korea's hated rival, and because Korea was taking the stage on international commerce, the government felt it necessary to aggressively push for English education for their children, if only to beat the Japanese.

In Korea, there exists a type of school called a hagwan. There isn't exactly an English equivalent of this word; when a child finishes their day at public school, they spend the rest of the afternoon doing concentrated studying at a small private school, the hagwan. There are many types of hagwans: math hagwans, science hagwans, even traditional dance hagwans. English hagwans are by far the most prominent, since the government mandated intense English instruction. Having a foreign teacher at your hagwan was considered prestigious, thus more profitable, so most of these hagwans provided free housing, higher than average salaries, a contract completion bonus, and flexible schedules to foreigners from English-speaking countries to entice them. Typically, a foreigner was signed on for a year-long contract, making a constant rotation of expats doing a stint in Korea for their own reasons.

Joy Academy was one of the largest hagwans in Wonju, with an entire team of foreign teachers, when having one or two was considered the norm for most English hagwans. Maretha introduced me to the other instructors on the team. There was Jeannie, a perpetual graduate school student from Australia saving for tuition. Then there was Stuart, a half-Maori shaggy-haired giant with a surprisingly gentle voice and a heart of gold. He was a big time soccer fan, though he quickly reminded me to call it football. Next was Richard, a middle-aged self-described "Texas-bred fag" whose proudest achievement was pushing through a same-sex adoption in his state when he worked as a social worker in his previous life, before the state cruelly closed that particular loophole. Rounding out the team was a twenty-something British couple: Jasper from Yorkshire, who was determined to become a labor law barrister and would rail against the Tories if given an ear, and his flighty girlfriend Fiona from Ireland who was mostly interested in drinking.

My first week as an employee at Joy Academy was filled mostly with getting acclimated to the school and teaching in general. I was nervous the first time I was thrown in front of a class of fourth graders, but their echoes of, "good afternoon, Teacher Erra," simply melted my heart. It was a flurry of onboarding, and jet lag recovery for those first few days. When the weekend finally arrived, my fellow teachers introduced me to the rest of the "Wonju foreigner scene."

Due to the size of Wonju, at any given time there were about 40 to 50 foreigners working at various hagwans, public schools, and universities in the city. Essentially, it meant that every week was someone's birthday or someone's going-away party. Some were lifers: married and settled with Korean spouses, and some were counting the days until they could finish their contract, get paid, and move on. We were all ages and walks of life, but our common thread was that we all had, somehow, found ourselves smack in the middle of Korea. A sort of "we're stuck in this place together, so let's party" mentality took hold between us all.