8 September 2007

Dear Sisters,

Things are good here. All incredibly wonderful, confusingly wild, but getting there. I can’t tell you how good it is to get all of your news and photos. Thanks so much.

Julie, please send me your book the minute it is in your hot little hands! So exciting.

Betty, the sailing sounds wonderful and I hope you find a new job soon. Don’t despair. Patience.

Kathy, keep on that treadmill!

I went shopping with the Korean CEO of the school today for a dance drum that I play while teaching. His name is Soo. Yes, he is a boy named Soo (pronounced Sue).

I insisted on going with him because I feared that he would buy a tambourine instead of a Mary Wigman dance drum. The teachers who still use this sort of instrument could all fit in a thimble. You can imagine my concern. The Korean staff of the school all nod and say yes, but you have the distinct impression that they will do what they assume you mean. Soo wanted to buy it himself. He said he knew exactly what kind of drum I wanted. Maybe he did. After all he had been in my NYC office where my drum sits in plain sight. However, I love my drum and I needed to feel as though I had some control over a part of my life in Korea. He took me to an amazing warehouse with a zillion floors of instruments ranging from grand piano to harmonica.

I could imagine the different musical sounds as we scaled the creaky stairs and walked quickly down the aisles (he was in a hurry and not quite sure where the percussion stores were) passing multiple stalls of guitars, clarinets, saxophones, cellos, trumpets and violins. It was a Philip Glass concert/ museum/ each visual sound had its own smell, mostly rice and noodles with a strong meat aroma. Very steamy.

I could feel Soo’s tension as we neared the stall-like percussion stores. Perhaps I had insulted his ability to buy the right drum. I became uneasy as we entered the first store. I looked around and at first glance it appeared a bust. Soo began speaking rapid Korean and waving his arms and shaking his head making his long hair dance around his ears and then he abruptly stopped and dug his hands into his pockets. The salesman showed me a very small hand drum. My heart sank. It was indeed a tambourine without the cymbals. No tuning key. I did like the wood though, but not the sound. It was at this time that I reached down and pulled out my years of therapy, hoping they would keep me from settling upon the inferior drum. Inferior drum. I actually had that thought. I gave it a firm tap and sure enough it sounded like a child’s toy instrument. I could feel the eyes of the salesman bore little holes in my hands. I reached up, hoped the drum would not fall on my head and put it back on the high ledge. The salesman stepped back. I looked carefully around the shelves of the sad drum and there it was! I pointed to a drum that I bought years ago at Sam Ash in New York City. It was an unusual size, which was why the guy was happy to see it go. It had a rich sound that yielded to my non-drummer’s wrist. It came with a tuning key. Bliss.

The salesman, Soo and some customers looked at the unlikely trio with the small non-Asian female drummer in the middle. Soo began speaking again seeming to apologize for my direct manner. This time his head fell forward, hair covering his mouth, as he imitated the way I pointed at the drum. Koreans do not point. I knew that. My excitement forced my rude American finger up to the good drum.

The next hurdle was to find the proper mallets. Was I pushing it? Soo seemed ready to go. No, I thought. Fuck it. I need my mallets! I looked at the owner (the salesman had been replaced by an older well dressed man) and asked for “fuzzy-balled” mallets. That is what I call them and I must have gotten that term from a percussionist. I hope. I felt as confident as one can feel in a foreign country pretending to know what the hell she is doing surrounded by slightly offended Asian men. I looked at Soo to translate. He looked back at me in silence and then began the rapid-fire speech as he tossed his long well coiffed hair around. The owner showed me tiny mallets with tight leatherheads. Again with the toys! No fuzz in sight. I shook my head. He looked at his upturned hands. That language I speak. I gestured to see more mallets. The owner looked at Soo and he nodded. We walked to a dark corner of the store and I was thrilled to be in front of ceiling to floor cubbies filled with mallets of all shapes, sizes and fuzz.

Soo relaxed, opened his stance, adjusted his sunglasses on the top of his head and folded his arms over his chest as if to say “Let the rumpus begin.” He seemed tickled watching me bounce the heads of the mallets over the taught skin. After a bit of squeezing and drum beating I choose a perfect pair of fuzzy-balled mallets. I began to beat the drum with one hand and rub its skin with the other as I leaned over (in a skirt) pressing it to my lap. I could feel all the different textures and began loosing myself in the range of sound. Heads turned politely. I stopped.

I was on a drum roll! I turned directly to the owner asking to see carrying cases for my drum and mallets. Soo leaned over my shoulder (he was standing behind me) and told me that they would not have one to fit that kind of drum. I tucked the mallets under my arm and with drum in hand walked around the overstuffed percussion stall until I found a stack of cases and pointed to the one on top. Again with the pointing, I should have put my hands in my pockets. I deftly unzipped the case slid the drum inside and nestled the mallets. I zipped it up placed it on my shoulder like a purse and looked at Soo. Thank you, I said. This is great. I was thrilled and he was beaming, rocking back and forth on his heels. Soo paid, the owner and his entourage walked us to the exit. We bowed to each other many times as I said thank you in Korean (kam sa ham ni da) feeling as though I were in a Bing Crosby/Bob Hope road movie.

Well, dear sisters. That was my first Saturday in Korea and I am feeling more and more that this is where I need to be.

I miss you all very much and thank god for all your supportive and newsy emails. What would I do without them?

All my love,
Joey