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My face is currently peeling like an onion from the terrible Sunniness of our school's Sports Day last weekend. I'm pretty sure one of the kids was trying to insinuate that I look like an unraveling Egyptian mummy today in class, in his poor-English-speaky. I bathed him in skin flakes from my disintegrating scalp and he shrieked like a banshee. It was awesome.

Last week I was sent on an expedition to Suwon to get my offical Alien Residence Card so I can, you know, live here. Legally and stuff. One of the kids' bus drivers drove me - Mr. Kim, a very sweet man - and I did some cross-cultural detective work and found out that he is indeed a brother to Mrs. Kim, our director. Apparently it's some big secret... and the school secretary Jasmine is their sister but nobody talks about it and everyone gossips and suspects and whispers. Everybody knows - I don't really get it - but I guess it's some crazy Korean family office thingy. And practically everyone here is named Kim.

ANYWAYS, we get to Suwon and I'm ushered into some bureaucratic office where I shamble about from floor to floor until I finally find Immigration and take a number. I'm immediately sent up to another floor because I need some passport-sized photos. The photo booth quickly became my own personal Satan.

ATTEMPT 1: Insert money into machine until something happens. Korean jabbering ensues and FLASH! WHOA! a row of pictures whirrs out of a slot, but apparently I was too busy looking at my shoes and praying for the insight to understand the photo booth's mechanical chanting. Sullenly check out the picture. 5000 won down the drain.

I showed my faux-photo to a passerby and he guffawed. "Look away, your mistake!" he cheerily told me before going to fuck his sister (probably).

ATTEMPT 2: Insert money. Stare intently at the photo booth mirror. Identify Korean countdown, but GAH! my eyes are stinging from not blinking. FLASH! Eyes wide open! Bleeding retinas! Sinking feeling in heart! Whirring once again, and oh no, it appears that I blinked.

Now I was really starting to get pissed off. Mr. Kim was waiting patiently in the bus while I fucked around with this horrendous automaton, and I had just blown enough money for two giant jugs of beer down at the convenience store. I had no more small bills and had to sojourn around the building, looking for change. I accidentally broke into some corporate board room meeting and, instead of looking bashful and apologetic, waved a 10 000 won note at a bunch of serious-looking guys in suits. "Change? Change!! Who's got change?" There was no change.

Eventually I returned to the photo booth with steadfast determination and the money-food I knew it loved. This curtained bitch would give me a passport photo. I needed it. I demanded it!

ATTEMPT 3: Insert money. Stare angrily at the camera. You're not supposed to smile for passport photos, right? Oh God, holding this pose is agonizing... can't blink... won't blink. FLASH! Whirr whirr whirr and out comes a picture of... something. I think it's me.

Crestfallen, I went back down to the immigration desk and sadly handed the trio of hideous photos to the official. He laughed uproariously and made a point of showing the photos to the two girls working on computers behind him. They laughed too, and I begged and pleaded in simplified English for mercy. I told them about all the money I had poured into these 'glamour' shots. Their photo booth had brought me to my knees, and I just needed my fucking card.

The official handed my stuff to one of the girls. "Usually... one week," he said. "Takes one week. But you - for you - today. She will do it now." This was small consolation for my public disgrace, but hey, at least now I wouldn't have to go back to this awful place to get my immigration card.

"Say thank you," the man said. "You are very special case. She thinks you are cute," he confided. I smiled and waved at her. "Komupsumnida!" Obviously this guy was lying: anyone looking at those photos could never mistake me for anything but a monster. Regardless, the fluffing was nice even if the lie was abysmal.

Gripping my ill-gotten card, I met Mr. Kim downstairs and he laughed at me too. Then he bought me a coffee and we were off, him piloting the short bus and me crouched in relieved solitude in the back. Radiohead's Creep was playing on the easy-listening Korean radio station in all its "You're So Fucking Special" glory and Mr. Kim told me that he liked ABBA. Dancing Queen. I don't like ABBA but I gushed and pretended to because he was such a stand-up guy.

I'm so fucking special.

Posted by Chris at 08:29 AM >> Commentations (7)