Connections Through Coffee
Connections Through Coffee By Isa Koreniuk, 1st ETA As one of the many, many avid coffee drinkers living in Korea, I often find myself in the following scenario: I walk into a trendy, inviting cafe and today’s Brazilian roast fills my nose as I search for the comfiest seats with the most aesthetic background. Is the chair with the window view better? Or the sofa next to the painting? Ultimately, I choose the window view, even though I will be next to the only other people in the cafe. It is worth it for the Instagram story. Eager to get my caffeine fix, I stroll over to the menu and see the same handful of drinks I could get at any other cafe. Although I understand the comfort of familiar flavors, I am always on the hunt for a new, interesting espresso like a maple brown sugar latte or perhaps even a lavender oat milk latte. As a recent graduate, I grew accustomed to the plethora of independent coffee shops in my college town.Local, small business cafes in the US are home to coffee experimentation and offer a variety of flavors, syrups, and roasts. In Korea, iced americanos, vanilla lattes, and caramel macchiatos dominate the market. Yes — Ediya, The Venti, Starbucks, and other chains have rotating seasonal flavors. They are good! However, these pale in comparison to the options back home. Since I would be without unique-flavored coffee for almost a year, I decided to take matters into my own hands. [Featured Image by Victoria Thiem] In 2020, mainly due to the pandemic, I learned how to make my own coffee syrups and bought an espresso machine. I learned to make pumpkin spice syrup, almond syrup, cinnamon syrup, sugar cookie syrup, and my fridge was always stocked with my favorites: brown sugar syrup and lavender syrup. Unlike other sweeteners, syrups are special in that they give off the illusion of being quite sophisticated and time-consuming to make when they are really the opposite! Regardless of where I am in the world, mentioning that I make my own lavender syrup earns impressed “ooooos” and “aaaaaahs.” It is an ego boost, though I know I am lying by omission. In reality, the hardest part of the process is pouring the syrup into a jar without making the entire counter sticky. (A funnel would be a lifesaver — maybe one day I will save up and make the 4,000 won investment in one.) My recipe has three ingredients. Yes, you read that right, three. In fact, most syrups have less than five ingredients and all start with the same base: sugar and water. Plain tap water is fine and everyday white sugar is standard. The fun starts with our final ingredient: any kind of food-grade lavender. Here in Korea, I ended up buying lavender tea bags off of Coupang, but loose-leaf lavender is preferable to use. There is no precise ratio, and you can add more or less lavender buds depending on your taste. Ingredients 1 cup of white sugar 1 cup of water 2-3 tablespoons of lavender buds OR 2 bags of lavender tea Directions Step 1: Combine the water, sugar, and lavender in a small pot over medium-high heat Step 2: Simmer and stir until all the sugar is dissolved Step 3: Remove from the heat and let the mixture steep for about 30 minutes Step 4: Remove the tea bags and pour into your jar OR strain the syrup into your jar Step 5: Store in the fridge Storage and Usage Tips Storing the syrup is a beast of its own, though. Picture this: you have five minutes to get to school. You have made a decadent iced oat milk latte in your to-go cup. The final step is sweetening it with a spoonful of lavender syrup. Yet, you can not get the jar open because the syrup crystallized around the lid. You muscle it open but not before accidentally pouring half the contents onto your floor, your counter, your pants, and yes — your favorite leather boots… all because it was easier to buy a wide-mouthed jar instead of a swing-top bottle and a funnel. So, let me impart this wisdom onto you: store the syrup in a glass jar — preferably one that does not twist open. If you have any empty pasta sauce jars lying around that are dying to be repurposed, then use those. Just be sure to wipe the top before closing it after each use unless you want to be frantically changing your outfit and scrubbing your floors before work. Now that the syrup is made, what can you do with it? Ordered an Americano but it is a bit bitter? Boom. Lavender syrup. CU coffee tasting bland? Boom. Lavender syrup. Missing fancy flavored cocktails from home? Boom. Lavender syrup. Lavender works well in just about everything, but I do find it complements coffee the best. How Coffee Creates Community Coffee and syrups have a unique way of bringing people together, whether it be acquaintances, work colleagues, or close friends. During orientation with heavy eyes and tired smiles, English Teaching Assistants (ETAs) waited for the elevator — often debating if walking the eight floors to get a morning coffee would be quicker. I made small talk with my fellow coffee drinkers in the E-mart, sampling all of the pre-packaged cups of coffee because the nearest cafe was way too far from Jungwon University’s campus. As we sipped our drinks and gobbled up our snacks, we talked about our parents’ jobs, the differences between Standard Korean and the Jeju dialect, Tuesday’s schedule, and everything in between. After orientation ended, I headed to my placement city, Gumi, to start my new adventure. After lunch, I was trying to find a way to kill the extra 40 minutes I had since everyone here scarfed their meals down in five. I kept awkwardly roaming the halls during my first few weeks until one afternoon I stumbled
Between Belonging
Between Belonging By Iris Hyun-A Kim, 1st Year ETA [Featured Image by Victoria Thiem] During my grant year, I attended a graduate school’s virtual DEI session for accepted students in hopes of hearing some words of comfort, perhaps along the lines of, “There will be an H Mart opening in town!” — but to no avail. Instead, the PowerPoint opened to the first slide of definitions of DEI terminology before launching into an hour-long session on Why You Will Love Our School. Diversity, Equity, Inclusion. Attempting not to spell it any other way, universities and corporations have adopted DEI as a catch-all phrase for their institutions, working to quantify and optimize the patterns that promote belonging among their students, faculty, and alumni. But how does one truly measure belonging, and why is it defined with equally ambiguous acronyms that seem to point at each other in an endless cycle? In Korea, the means of racial or ethnic identification are (thankfully) not a checklist. But they do feel almost binary: either Korean or non-Korean. Those in between, meaning part of the ethnic Korean diaspora, typically draw to one side more than the other. But even the between space holds another unspoken dimension of intra-diversity, where being Korean American can be further split depending on language skill, cultural knowledge, number of visits to the motherland, etc. There were too many moments when I did not feel “Korean” enough in college, where I met Korean international students and other Korean Americans who were well-versed in the above criteria. While it ultimately helped form my understanding of what it means to be Asian in America, and ultimately formed the basis of my Fulbright research on Korean diaspora and belonging, I was brought back to this insecurity upon moving to Korea. Most of the Korean returnees I encountered in Seoul, if not visiting for tourism or studying abroad, held strong ties to the peninsula. I asked some Korean American friends if they could imagine themselves living here for the long term, and to my surprise, most of them answered yes. Their family all returned to Korea, and the flexible F-4 heritage visa incentivizes Korean diasporic residents to stay as long as they want. But when I asked if they felt like they belonged, it was the opposite answer. “I feel more American, especially in Korea,” was one reply. “But there are a lot more privileges in being American in Korea than in being Korean in America.” Since when does one have to choose between belonging or comfort? I was perplexed by these answers. Yet, nobody seemed confused by these conclusions. There comes a point in all this wondering when I stop and ask myself if my research questions matter, if I am the only one asking these questions in the first place. When the DEI event opened for questions, I asked the question swelling inside of me. “I get that DEI is important, and the way to improve DEI seems pretty straightforward. But what about belonging? You can diversify a student population, and you can improve equity and inclusion in a similar metric, but how do you really improve upon belonging?” The DEI representative’s answer was summed up into one simple sentence. Diversity, equity, and inclusion, when being worked on in their respective parts, produce belonging. I digested these words slowly, and over the week, I found relatable truth in her words. Despite their flaws and bureaucratic obstacles, American institutions that actively work on their DEI initiatives are addressing these questions for the sake of people who wonder if their questions matter, if they matter, thousands and thousands of miles away from the comforts of home. Because home no longer has to be a singular physical place, but one that can be called, constructed, and committed to. In the words of the cheesy quote that I hung over my freshman dorm bed frame, “Home is where the heart is.” Comfort and belonging may not always come hand in hand, but there is always space to create belonging, whenever and wherever you choose.
Vignettes from the Metro
Vignettes from the Metro By William Landers, 3rd Year ETA “Life is like the metro. You’re sitting in the car while people get on and off. You don’t know how long you will have with them, but you can be kind in the time you have together.” – A mentor and friend My friends in Seoul often ask me what I will miss most about Korea when I go home. I have always provided a quick, easy response because the full answer would weigh too heavily on a light conversation. As departure speeds toward me, though, I feel an urgency to share some reflections on my journey here. There are so many precious stories I could tell about the people and places I will miss that I could never choose only one. However, I can share a few stops along my journey. Bongmyeong Station, Seoul Metro Line 1, Dongnam-gu, Cheonan Bongmyeong Station is nestled in a quiet corner of a mid-sized, mountain-ringed city on the north-central side of Chungcheongnam-do. The Line 1 Metro trains pass through it, carrying passengers leisurely toward Osan, Suwon and eventually, Seoul. Time exhales slowly and deeply between new arrivals here, on the southern edge of my first placement city. This place reminds me of the many small journeys I embarked on with my friends. It recalls the slap of three pairs of rubber soles on the hot summer asphalt, the musky air rising from the gardens in the rainy season, and the aroma of the BHC chicken that my group carried for an improvised Thanksgiving. When I ride here in my memory, I see crumbs from the ham and cheese sandwich that I devoured with my neighbor, another ETA, after a hurried departure from Fulbright orientation. I feel the warmth of the July sun as I roasted s’mores with my summer camp students. And I feel the weight of conversations with a dear friend, grappling with our experiences returning to Korea as adoptees. Bongmyeong Station is a quiet, cozy place, and it echoes with the soft whispers of new friends who welcomed me for the first time. Anguk Station, Seoul Metro Line 3, Jongno-gu, Seoul Anguk Station is long, straight and narrow to maximize efficient foot traffic to both ends. Its brown brick walls and black wrought-iron railings bound a race track for commuters who jostle for pole position in the mornings. The railways squeal with the arrival of new passengers, the stone floors clap against hard rubber footsteps, and the turnstiles groan under unceasing rotations. Anguk Station hums with the manic frequencies of rush hour and the urgent motion of bodies. I was blind the first time I walked out of this place. I literally could not see because the frigid air painted an impenetrable fog on my glasses. With each breath, I saw less of the world. I felt like a bat in my black winter coat, wrapping my wings around my body, using echolocation to judge the distance to the nearest footfalls. I would have laughed, except that I was also blinded by sorrow. Each step forward brought me closer to a new school and further from my first one. I understood that I was walking toward a desirable placement, one that offered support and opportunities to grow. One that many others had sought. But I was also walking into an unknown space, in the cold, far from the city I loved as a second home. As I trudged through the biting cold, I wondered if my former principal was standing outside the school, waiting to greet the students like he always did. I wondered if my previous co-teacher was briefing the new ETA on the textbooks. I wondered if my students remembered the s’mores I had made with them last summer. I wondered and worried, and I listened for the footfalls ahead. Riding through this place now, after another year, I can see. I can see the wide platform where my students smiled and waved at me after a busy exam season. I can see the broad columns that I leaned against while talking about dinner plans with other teachers from my school. I can see the tall staircases that I raced up at the start of each morning, and I can see the sunlight that hit my face halfway through the ascent. Slowly, after each ride at rush hour, discussion with a teacher, and greeting from a student, I warmed up to my new placement. I can see now that kindness flows through this place. As I ride away, I carry the farewells and notes and class photos from my time here. The next time I walk through a cold winter to an unfamiliar destination, I will hold these memories for warmth. Haeundae Station, Busan Metro Line 2, Haeundae-gu, Busan Haeundae Station lies several blocks inland from the beach. It is planted so far away that you can only see the blue waves on a sunny day if you squint. The station’s exits deposit travelers onto the surface with no cover. On stormy days, the stairs and passengers all shine with a coating of rainwater as they enter the underground portion. The walls and ceilings, like the train cars here, wrap around people and are no larger than necessary. A far cry from the Seoul Metro’s cavernous stations and wide trains. When I think of Haeundae Station, I remember the fat, soaking rain in typhoon season. There is something oppressive about feeling a raindrop fall so fast and hard that it immediately soaks through a jacket sleeve. There is something maddening about the whistle of water blown sideways in a gale. Even on sunny days, though, I feel a weight that clings to me. I feel the raindrops falling on me when the eyes of a waiter search through a group of my friends and then lock onto mine. They have assigned me the role of translator without uttering a syllable in my direction. I hear the gales whip