White Knuckle Tours

The Blab We have been asked to babysit. The projected prisoner is a medium-sized, coffee-colored rabbit (blab). This thing has the innate intelligence of a turnip but is capable of sudden and horrific acts of violence, using the large, sharp claws on its hind legs to shred the unprotected appendages of people foolish enough to pick it up. Turnips do not have such capabilities, unless you consider the large attack turnips of Madagascar, a breed highly regarded for its abilities as a guard vegetable.

PTAbility Several times each semester we attend a parent-teacher conference to discuss the progress of our kids. Seoul Foreign School conducts these sessions to provide feedback on the children, but it also allows the parents insight into how the school works. Our schedule has Stephanie first (Mrs Mott), and Matthew second (Mrs Kim).

The first words out of Mrs Mott’s mouth are, “I’m glad you came in early because we like to discuss the difficult cases first.”

As our hearts sink we think, difficult cases? What is she, a mental patient? Gradually the full story emerges: Stephanie, age 6, is reading around the 4th or 5th grade levels, and the school is considering moving her to the second grade. However, Stephanie, age 6, is emotionally age 6 and the school doesn’t want to pressurize her socially. They have devised a program for her in which part of her day is spent in the second grade, part with the teacher on a special instructional program, and part in the first grade. Then she will move to the second grade in January.

Matthew on the other hand has more typical problems, i.e., not giving full effort, attempting to slide by with minimum work, … hey, wait a minute, that’s me! Well young man it’s simply unacceptable to be me. You’ll have to do better than that.

Getting a Handel on it We had an interesting white-knuckle tour the other evening. We had scored tickets to ‘An Evening with Choral Music’ at the Seoul Arts Center. The Center is the cultural heart of a culturally rich city, housing the Seoul Opera, Seoul Symphony, and the Art Museum. The guest artiste this night was a French boy’s choir called The Little Singers of Wooden Cross. They sang in their high, clear pre-pubescent voices, point and counterpoint, the works of Bach and Handel as well as some Gregorian chants. Listening to these pure voices permeate the Hall, I wondered what might happen if, right in the middle of a particularly soprano-laden passage one of the boys chose to crash headlong into puberty, voice warbling down to a hormone-induced frogian croak — a duck unmasked among the swans. The Sergeant-At-Arms would march steadfastly on stage and remove the stunned child (perhaps by an ear or scruff of the neck), dishonorably and formally discharging him from innocence.

Except for a brief and forgettable run on the Broadway theatre of my mind, that didn’t happen. Darn.

After the show we had a light meal of Korean sushi (kimbap) and noodles. We made our way back home through the dark and dense streets of Seoul, accompanied by the music of Handel soaring gloriously through our heads, and only got lost thirty or forty times.