The final goodbye

The boys are the hardest to say bye to. The girls pretend they never liked Teacher Russ at all, then slip notes that say “Secret!” asking for e-mails from the departed. The boys, they say, “You’ll be here Thursday?” but know I won’t.

Jake pulls Eric and I into a group hug, then they break away to do the western handshakes that I taught them. Hand limp, slide and snap, bump and break dramatic. Thumb in then up, shoulders back and pull bodies together for the double back slap.

They’re ready for a cameo on Entourage. They’ve got the western slang and know the lyrics to the oldies and current kiddie pop songs I taught them. They’ve got promises to visit one day in Canada and rich parents who will probably send them.

I’ve got my memories and a plane ticket.

The first last day

The bill is $110 for pizza. Almost as much as the two days extra pay received for acting as host to all the pizza parties. Each class starts with a toothy grin, “Who knows what today is??”

The first last day. The start of student goodbyes. The exchange of e-mail addresses and small presents and I’ll Miss You’s. Exchange stamps for photos of students posing with peace sign, hand out stickers and pencils for correctly answered questions.

Make sure all students know age and favorite member of Big Bang. Know who is the youngest foreign teacher. Give high fives as they exit the building.

Go home and answer goodbye e-mails.

The Leaving Song: part I

The last bite of beef is taken before nine. Galbi, Korean BBQ, will miss you, dear friend. Crack the final bottle of Fort Garry Dark, saved in its spot for such special occasion: the end.

Down to Dujeon Oasis wine bar, squish in dozens on the rocky floor. Take over the front of house, edging out all the locals wondering when North America flew in. Buy out the cheapest dry red, and leave the second the first expensive bottle is spent.

On to our preferred basement dive to watch the newbie derby blonds grind up a stripper pole. Insist too many drinks be bought in the name of the hour, then threaten to knife the white guy going after your Korean girl friend.

Grab the hand of the oldest ally and fall into sweatpants, two to a single bed. Closer, closer, wind it down. The end, the end. The end.

This is not an exit

There are three bars foreigners in Cheonan frequent. On Saturday all were empty. The tumbleweed tossed off the backs of the train tracks as we pulled out of town. Our party ballooned through dinner, drinks, then dancing, new familiar faces oft walking through the door.

We settled into a downstairs dive club and brought a party to the empty place. We shook to new and old hits, arms flailing with the rest. Picked up five Koreans who poured tequila down our throats.

Sweaty we climbed back up to open air, hunting gyros on the street. Round the corner to the singing room, twenty beers, nine couches, and the biggest songs on blast. Then sometime round sunrise we rubbed our eyes at the gray-lit street.

Seven thirty the train pulled back in, a quick fifteen-hour trip. Welcomed morning rain, tugging hoodie strings. Hailed cab and said for one of the last times: Buldang Joong-hayko.