About Anne-Claire Siegert

Recent Posts by Anne-Claire Siegert

How Much I Hated ‘Eat, Pray, Love’

I have been anticipating Eat, Pray, Love the movie since last year when I read the book. Don’t judge me. I have.

I read the book, I went to Bali, I had my palm read by Ketut. I passed the book onto my aunt and then I waited for the movie to come to Korea.

Last Thursday, it did.

In the movie theater, I’ve never seen so many people playing on their iPhones. Julia Roberts screams, “I don’t need to love you to prove that I love myself!!!” and the guy next to me looks down, slides the lock off his iPhone and checks his Facebook.

There wasn’t even a sex scene — thus solidifying the sad truth that absolutely nothing in the movie climaxes.

But what surprised me the most was how true to the story it was, and how I found myself constantly thinking how petty and self-centered this woman is — something I had never thought while reading the book. But when you see it there in front of you, in a two-hour-and-13-minute — or more accurately, 7,980-second — drama form, it’s hard to ignore the fact that it’s really just a story of a woman acting like a child. And in the end, you’re actually kinda pissed when she gets what she wants.

So all in all, I hated Eat, Pray, Love. It pissed me off. I would rather watch my mom dance on a bar. That is to say, I would rather watch Mama Mia again. Actually, I would rather watch the Mama Mia sing-along version with a theater full of “Claymates.”

That’s how much I hated Eat, Pray, Love.

The Bees and the Bird and the Biggest Thing in the Ocean

A bus is parked in front of my classroom. It has little naked children standing on flying lilypads on it.

“It’s the bees and the bird bus.”

Later on at lunch, in an attempt to divert the conversation away from the usual topic of students, children and mothers-in-law, I brought up the subject.

“What do you think they talk about on the bees and the bird bus!?”

“They talk about how to make babies.”

Flashback to naked children on flying lilypads.

“Oh. In our sex ed classes, we always learned how not to make babies.”

Chewing.

“Well, so do they teach you about contraceptives?”

“No.”

“Really? Do you get sexual education classes in high school?”

“No. How’s the soup?  Too spicy?”

And just like that, despite having said “sex” twice without getting kicked under the table, I had failed. I resigned to a future of students, children, and mothers-in-law.

So you can imagine how– only later that day– I was shocked, and frankly pissed, when a little purple puppet made a cameo in my classroom, rife with sexual innuendo in the form of one tentacle.

That video made it 30 seconds before the teacher turned it off– proof that I wasn’t the only one thinking it.

It’s the voice right? And the laughing adults. Adults don’t laugh at puppet shows.

And the tentacle…

So I learned my lesson that day. Koreans don’t talk about sex, even under the guise of “the bees and the bird.” But sometimes it flies in on a lilypad, or pulls up on a bus. And sometimes, if you’re really lucky, it just might be ”the biggest thing in the ocean.”

When it Rains in Seoul, it Pours Travel Melancholia

It has rained in Seoul for the past three days– the kind of rain that makes the land vibrate; where full fields look like they’re boiling.

The saying goes that when it rains, it pours, and for me– this week– the saying is true.

So in accordance with that damn saying, my computer crashed.  It was my lesson in supplementing a lonely weekend by downloading the entire series of Sex and the City.

Stupid, stupid!

So now I’m at a PC Bong fulfilling my baser desires by browsing facebook.  And (in Carrie Bradshaw style, as tribute to my weekend) I couldn’t help but wonder– in a digital world, where lives are picture perfect (thanks to the “untag” option) is everyone really as happy as they seem?

For me, these days I’m experiencing the lonely side of travel.  The side where you’re looking back on what you once had and realizing it’s gone and you’re living in a small apartment in Seoul, South Korea in a certain shade of neon from the pay-by-the-hour Honey Motel across the street, watching Sex and the City and wondering what the hell you’re doing with your life.

The reason I always wanted to travel is because I always wanted to put myself out of my comfort zone. I felt like in travel, I could find something– whether it be something about myself, something about the world, or something about what I wanted to do with my life. Actually, I wanted to find all three. But it seems all I’m finding is that I had already found it.  And now it’s gone.

A friend of mine says that’s just a drawback of travel– it can be unstable and at times, it can make you miss what you once had.

So is that how we’re supposed to live out our lives– cursed by having been blessed?  Or is learning the lesson that we didn’t appreciate what we once had, the only way to learn to appreciate what we have.

So although recently I haven’t been able to tell if the weather fits my mood or if my mood fits the weather, life has always shown me– and I know– that both will always get better.

In the meantime, there’s music.  And here’s something one of my best friends Megan sent me; ignorant to how I feel, and all too perfect. Let me know what you think.

Religious Freedom in a Muslim Country

“You know, I hope you have a daughter just like you someday.”

The line played in my head on the tail-end of my flight. Her tone revealed this wasn’t a compliment. Instead, it was my mother’s reaction to being told I was going to a Muslim country alone for my vacation. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that popular media refer to Muslims as terrorist or jihadists, but like many Americans, my mom doesn’t want her daughter traveling alone to a Muslim country.

“You shouldn’t go,” she said.

I looked up as a voice came over the intercom.

“We are now preparing for landing. Fair warning: drug and human trafficking are forbidden in Malaysia. Penalty is capital punishment. Enjoy your stay and we hope you enjoyed our Malaysian hospitality.”

It’s not every day you hear the phrase, “enjoy your stay,” prefaced with, “penalty is capital punishment.” For that matter, it’s not every day you hear “capital punishment” prefaced with “fair.” But I couldn’t think about it; a comparable fate awaited me in my near future. I had a 12-hour long layover at KLIA.

After too much time spent looking at my shoe laces and getting ideas, I walked around and learned that the KLIA was voted the best airport in the world in 2003. But don’t get too excited (dare I say you didn’t), it’s still an airport. Everyone is like Sisyphus, pushing their burdens around; seemingly no end in site. I waited in line at a free internet kiosk in order to e-mail my mom to tell her I was safe. An Indian man, dressed in business casual, stood at the only working computer, apathetically scrolling through an article on Wikipedia. The woman in line in front of me voiced her frustration through heavy breathing. When she finally gave up and walked away, the man on the computer followed her irreverently with his eyes before returning to his article. I eventually gave up too, unsure if this was the type of guy to defend myself around.

I spent the night in the airport so that I wouldn’t have to buy a hotel room– that, and apparently because I’m a masochist. At 4 a.m., I was woken up by a guy playing his ring tones in my direction. As I walked away, he turned them off.

Through one bloodshot eye, I made it to immigration where the immigration officer looked around me toward the empty line.

“You’re going alone?” he asked.

“Yes, why? You think it’s unsafe?”

Validating my mothers warnings with one long, audible hesitation, he finally said, “Just don’t take a taxi.”

So I walked outside and actually considered turning around. But I didn’t. Or I couldn’t. Instead, I took an airport limo from KLIA to the LCCT terminal where I was to fly to Kota Bharu.

Nervous being an understatement, at this point I was checking every street sign, checking the rearview mirror, waiting for the driver to look back at me with a head full of ideas. But he never did. Instead he dropped me in front of the airport where the mysterious Malaysia, shrouded by night just a few hours before, was finally revealed to me.

I got out of the car hesitant and also surprised. There were women wearing heals and short dresses, travelers with their traveling hats, Muslims, Buddhists, and Christians; a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, a KFC, a McDonalds and a Starbucks. This place wasn’t scary. My nerves started to settle. It seemed less conservative than Korea–women were showing cleavage.

Once I arrived in Kota Bharu, I was greeted by a man holding a sign with my name on it. I piled into a bus, surprised to find myself surrounded completely by Europeans.

I wondered if Mariah Carey and Martina McBride know they’ve been to Malaysia. I wondered why everyone seems to be traveling in pairs. I wonder why the only empty seat is the one next to me…

Not one for subtle hints, it was only after a speedboat dropped me on the Perhentian Islands at Coral Bay and I saw not one person who wasn’t holding the hand of another that I realized– I am alone on a freaking island of honeymooners.

But at least I’m not on Nancy Grace.

That evening I walked to a nearby restaurant and stopped dead, horrified to read this sign:

“ABSOLUTELY NO BEER, LIQUOR OR WINE SOLD HERE.”

Damnit my mom was right!

Something about the words ‘absolutely no’ in reference to alcohol, in capital letters, conjures up more fear in me than ‘capital punishment.’ But after visiting the dive shop to figure out a schedule, I inquired if there was any alcohol on the island and, thank Allah, there was.

So that night, I got to know the dive instructors who work there. We took some beers and the island liquor, called “Monkey Juice,” and trekked through the jungle up to some abandoned chalets a few of them were squatting in.

And there, in the quiet candlelight under a jungle canopy of trees and stars, a Danish girl passed me a joint and I pondered the meaning of the word “trafficking.”

She had lived in Malaysia– in Kuala Lumpur– most of her life.

“It’s funny,” she said, exhaling as she changed the subject back to its original topic, “You go into a bar where Indians have taken over and it’s all this Indian music and everyone’s bopping their heads. You go to a bar where Europeans go and it’s all house music and cigarettes. “

“Yah,” agreed another, “This place is strange– so many different groups and never any real problems. It’s a great example of tolerance.”

In the company of my new friends, over the next few days I went diving; I wandered around the island, smoked shisha (hookah) and jumped off jetties way passed my bed time. Alone in the evenings, I would snorkel out to the coral and watch the fish come in to feed; so thick in some parts, I felt I was crowd surfing. I swam in the calm ocean at night and watched the plankton sparkle neon around me in the moonlight. I didn’t know it could do that.

A boat and then a bus would eventually take me back to the airport where on the way, I would wonder if Dido and Rihanna know they’ve been to Malaysia. As we drove, we passed open-air mosques with brightly colored Muslims, kneeling and praying for Ramadan. Some were inside and some were talking on the path outside. Other, non-Muslims were smoking cigarettes, casually watching from across the street during pauses in conversation.

The arm of the driver stretched across my field of vision and motioned to a tall statue of Buddha standing stark white over the palms.

“Look there,” he said. “It’s a free standing Buddha. Beautiful isn’t it? Many Chinese live here.”

The Hindu god, Rama, danced from his rearview mirror to the sway of the road, a little out of synch with Dido’s “Thank You.”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

Asia Video Collage

The Korean Word For Orgasm

Americans have a special gift for neglecting the proper names for people and places and just going ahead and giving them their own.

Firenze is now Florence, Italia is Italy, Praha, once fluffy and light, now drops out of our mouths like a dollop of Prague.

I even had a friend once who changed the name of Tiny Dancer to ”Hold me closer, Tony Danza.” Which just begs the question; How do you mess up Elton John!? He speaks such good English for a foreigner.

And speaking of foreign languages, Doubleya already told you– Americans don’t  ”speak Mexican.”

See, like so many things, I never realized this neglect until I stepped outside of the United States and saw that other countries don’t do it.  Same goes for our school lunches– in comparison to healthy, Korean lunches, you think: HOLY SHIT HOW ARE WE NOT DEAD?!

Oh yah, we have diabetes.

But now I’m off topic.

Bringing me back is a text message I’ve just recieved from my American friend, Alexis.  She wants to know what time I’ll meet her in an area called Sindorim.  Having melding together this name with what appears to be Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium, she asks:

“What time will you be in Sindorium?”

So I wonder, Alexis– is it that Americans are just completely ego-centric, or are we just lazy bastards?  Or could it be that we just really can’t pronounce shit right?

I know in your case, you just really can’t pronounce shit right. And to be fair, we Americans even mess up the names we create.  Case-in-point: east Tennessee’s Mer-vul– clearly spelled Maryville.

But what seems to be the underlying theme of this problem is a lack of consideration– a revelation that dawned on me while watching a commercial for Et-ee-o-pee-an coffee.

During my brief stint in Addis Ababa, I learned this was the correct way to pronounce the country we call Ethiopia. And so I said so to my Korean friend. To which he replied:

“Koreans always try to pronounce the country’s name the way the natives say it.  Even for bread– it comes from France, so the Korean word is ‘pan.’”

I think of all the So-Jung’s and Shee-hais I’ve re-named Sally and Jennifer, and I realize — how could I be so neglectful in a country so considerate?

See, when it comes to manners and consideration, Korea is like the Michael Jackson to the world’s Jackson Five:

Look at Michael– follow what Michael does. Michael’s doing it right!

And Koreans show respect by pronouncing the names for foreign countries the same way the natives do.  Also, if a word didn’t exist in Korea while it was becoming westernized following signing of the cease-fire agreement after the Korean War, Koreans give it its proper name from its rightful origin.

This actually turns out to be an alarming fact as I sound out the word 오 르 가 즘– oh-ruh-gaw-jum, ohrgajum. Orgasm.

Orgasm!?

What!? Orgasms are an American import? And there was never a Korean word for them before?! I’m both proud then sad, then proud again.

And then I brush my shoulders off.

Strutting down the street in the wake of this realization, I bask in the glory that at the very least, we got something right.

Hansel And Gretel

In case you’re ever left doubting the effectiveness of your lesson plans, just ask your students:

“What’s the weather today?”

If they answer, “It’s Friday!” you know.

If it’s Monday, well, you can be certain.

You’d think this answer, so early on a Monday morning, would cause me to lose all hope in my students. But I persevere, knowing they’ll catch up. Because in this country, hard work and long hours is the status quo.

Think about the US and how, at the end of the day, school buses take students home.

In Korea, they take students to other schools.

So each day at 2:30, the bell rings and children run excitedly to the buses like little Hansels and Gretels running ignorantly into the oven.

“There’s no candy in the bus! But there’s no candy in the…”

Slam. Lock.

Their work ethic is ineffable. The only way it could be given proper justice is if it were to be set to the tune of “I’m a Woman.”

Well I get up at 8 and start the day by studying before class. I study Korean, science and history. And then I study math. I do my homework ’til midnight and then play computer games ’till I win. I wake up at 8 and wash my face and then start all over again. (jazz fingers) ‘Cause I’m Korean. K.O.R.E.A.N.

And thus, in the midst of breaking up a fight one day, I come upon a complaint that I feel is uniquely Korean:

“Stop fighting!” I say. “Why did you hit her?!”

“I said I already know this and I want to learn something more. So she called me a jackass and hit me.”

Ah, the old I-want-to-learn-more complaint.

My co-teacher interjects. “You want to learn more?”

Uh-oh.

“Yes.”

“Something different?”

“Yes.”

“Something new?”

I sense a trap Hansel, I sense a trap…

“Yes.”

She smiles.

“Then you can learn consideration.”

How I Met My Spouse

Koreans in general meet each other on blind dates set up through friends. In Busan, a popular first date spot was a restaurant called, and I can’t make this shit up, Guess Who– a name so appropriate, it belongs in the same category with Alexis’ autograph from the famous track star, I-Perfection.

“Yah, yah, yah. We just called him Harris.”

My good friend Marc recently wrote me on the topic of his upcoming blind date, in which his skepticism clearly outweighs his excitement:

“It’s like going to the thrift store to find the perfect pair of underwear. Or something.”

But when you ask most Korean couples how they met, they usually say it was this way: A friend set them up with someone he or she knows. Pictures were exchanged. They said nae or annio.

Which gives me an idea– today’s subject for my adult conversation class: how you met your spouse; sure to spark interesting dialogue where we branch off into different topics, filling the entire class period; all the while leaving me to plan nothing more than:

“How did you meet your spouse?”

“Blind date.”

“Blind date.”

“Blind date.”

“Same.”

Foiled again!

But now I’m curious. Searching for a more interesting story, I probe a happy expat couple I know here.

“How did you two meet in Korea?”

“We met at a bar and had sex. Same as most expats.”

“Oh.”

« Previous Page — Next Page »