Beautiful Seoul

You know you're in Seoul when...

1. You spot a vending machine from afar and as you approach it, expecting some snacks and goodies, you realize the machine is actually vending: dahn Dahn DAHN: BOOKS.

2. You receive a packet of panty liners as "service" after purchasing movie tickets at the theater (luved it).

3. You seem to be the only one who goes to bed before 1 AM, on a weekday.

4. Mickey Mouse, heart prints, poofy shoulders, bows, and Keira Knightley on clothing begin to look very appealing.


5. No tip, yeah!

6. You start admiring guy's hair cuts more than girls.

7. Your co-worker cooks up kimchee jeegae in the office kitchen and the whole office feasts.

8. When riding the subway, the incredibly aggressive ahjumahs become your biggest fear.

9. Couples in head-to-toe matching outfits pass by and you start thinking, "Now that's not so bad."

10. Rain, rain and more rain (summer).

My Fellow Netizens

My Fellow Netizens,

It is a privilege to join the netizen community.  Many thanks for the multiple, double e-props I received from numerous fans already.  And special thanks to DC for setting up my new xanga home, his one-year anniversary gift to me.

I lost my diary at a bus stop in Mali in 2003 when my backpack was stolen.  Ever since then, it has been really hard for me to write about my life again.  I remember feeling so violated, and my heart ached for all those precious, carefully recorded, secret thoughts on my first year there in a journal-notebook that some Malian kid was probably going to end up using as fuel for fire.  In that stolen bag was also: a new camera that my mom had sent me by mail, my passport and immunization card, cute new tops I had just bought from my recent visit to the States, my favorite underwear, and Bible.  But the only thing I wanted back was that darn notebook, the only thing that was irreplaceable.

I never saw any of those items again, except for one of my tops, which I SWEAR I spotted on some Malian girl in the busy outdoor market of that truck-stop town a few months later.  She's lucky I didn't catch her. 

When I came back to America, the "blog craze" seemed to have hit my friends while I was away.  I would hear my friends drop unfamiliar jargon in everyday discussions, such as "friendster," "blog," "xanga," "netizen...," words that made me feel left out and primitive.  In revolt, I declared that I would never participate in such things. Three years later, I find myself connected to 1,109 second degree friends on Friendster and writing my first xanga entry.

I hope I'll be able to start writing again through this.  Thanks in advance for your support and your curiousity regarding my two cents. 

Keep Touching With Me,

Betty