In the summer of 1996, I spent three weeks in Korea teaching 31 Samsung businessmen how to take the GMAT. I spent my weekdays at the company's pastoral retreat about an hour south of Seoul, and on weekends I was shuttled into the big city to stay with other temporary expat teacher people and drink enough soju to drop an ox.
It was there where I learned to really love the taste of kim chi, although it took a few days to adjust to having it served to me for breakfast. Those Koreans, they eat that stuff by the bushel, and on my first morning it was laid out in the chow line (next to the Froot Loops, btw) in large trays. I thought they were lasagnas.
There are a lot of stories about Korea that I could tell you, and since I signed up for this fershlugginer blopathon I might as well serialize them here.
The first isn't so much a story as a revelation that stood out as beacon of good news amid the rocky shoals of the work week. Right before I left Korea, I had a wool suit custom-made for my delicious, delicious body. It's a handsome garment, charcoal with a light pinstripe, and whenever I wear it I feel like a real big-shot plutocrat whose crudbunker is lined with shredded $100s.
Now that the temps are in the 40s, I pulled it out to wear to work. And the son-of-a-bitch still fits. And lo, I am gratified.