solegraphy :: like calligraphy, only better

There is just something about traveling. The rush of anticipation, the fear of the unknown, the thrill of the unseen. It is almost like perching on the edge of a ravine, drinking in the beauty but knowing full well that with one slip – it could all end.

Or at least that is how I view it, but I have been known to be a bit dramatic.

Last month, I visited the sea (Japan-side) and climbed some breath-taking mountains. My friends and I were beaten away from dangerous cliffs by elderly Korean men, fried snails on a grill only to have them explode on us, and were angerly shouted at by beach authorities who assumed that as foreigners – we must have been littering. It is amazing that, for such a small country, Korea offers such incredible natural diversity. Thus concludes my explanation of why these pictures are in this entry even though it has nothing to do with the rest of it.

Last week, I visited the eye doctor due to my second case of pink-eye this month. The first time, I had a translator at the International Clinic, but this time – in interest of time – I chose to go to another, smaller, clinic. Sometimes I simply forget that nothing is quite as easy as it seems.

It began with finding the clinic – in an obscure building on the third floor. I was given the name in English, but apparently the sign was written in Korean – of course. After several minutes of slowly reading the sign in the pouring rain, I triumphantly burst into the office.

Receptionist: (bows a little) Anyo huseyo. (Meaning hello).

Me: bows back and responds in kind. Gives name and waits for response.

Receptionist: pulls out a massive sheet written in tiny Korean symbols. Begins babbling in Korean, obviously expecting me to respond back to help her fill out her paperwork.

Me: Uh, luni (eye)? (begins violently pointing at my eye because, duh, it is not like I am at an eye clinic or anything.)

Receptionist: (smiles at me a bit pitying.) Con-tact-uh?

Me: What?

Receptionist: Con-tact-uh? (points at her own eyes)

Me:  Huh? Mulieyo (I don’t know).

Receptionist: obviously at a loss of how to explain this any other way.

Me: (finally putting together the fact that some Korean words are the same as English, only with an -uh at the end) OH. Contacts! Nae (yes)!

Receptionist: smiles benignly, realizing she wont get anymore information out of me, puts the form away and ushers me into the doctor’s office and away from the gaping stares of the others in the waiting room.

And thus began the next twenty minutes of feeling like an child. The doctor and the receptionist were more than kind considering the circumstances, but I had not a clue what they were asking of me. They would babble a few minutes to me, realize I wasn’t responding with anything other than “I don’t know”, and then begin babbling to each other about me. At one point, in complete frustration, I called our school nurse to translate for me. I, smiling at my genius, handed the cell phone to the receptionist. She explained everything to the school nurse, hung up my cell phone, and happily handing my cell back to me. I, slightly dejected at the thwarting of my brilliant plan, accepted it and dumped it back in my bag. She then grabbed my hand, led me down the stairs, across the street and into the nearest pharmacy – still holding my hand.

I think it is very tempting – despite our own level of understanding – to treat others who do not speak the same language as us childishly. Based on what little she knew I understood, the receptionist earnestly desired to make things easier for me – though unknowingly making me feel silly. It also made me realize the extent to which I still depend on others. Maybe I needed to be made a little humble to allow the kindness of others to shine.

That, and maybe I should go to the International Clinic next time.