december 14, 2008 11:32am – in Korea
There's a ringing in my ears when the test commences, but it does nothing to hinder my listening. The robotic instructor tells me in the clearest, loudest English possible to read a text aloud. He says the same thing at the same time to the other test takers in the other blue cubicles. Before our voices are recorded we're allowed thirty seconds for a dry run through the passage, some boring blurb from the lifestyle section of a local paper with no context. I opt out, but the others, in their nervous, jittery voices all have a go at the same time. It's like a Greek chorus at first, pronouncing in austere unison that "Boating enthusiasts will be delighted this Sunday when America's Cup winner Brad Janelly will be visiting Mason county." Sensing the awkwardness of their deliveries, after the first sentence, the volume of their voices dies down and the timing breaks apart.
Two weeks ago I said yes when my boss asked me if I wanted to take the TOEIC speaking and listening test intended for ESL students. I meant that at that exact time and place, taking a test of my ability to speak my mother language sounded like a laugh. I did not say that two weeks later I wanted to brave an unforgiving December morning with a hangover nagging me to please lie down and place my hands over my ears. But it cost about seventy five dollars of someone else's money, and there'll be questions about it later at work, so here I am.
After the test I get my phone back from the phone box. None of the people who work at the English language testing center speak English at a functioning level, but I don't have to ask any questions; Mine is the only confiscated phone that has a name sticker on it that says "Mike" instead of "이남준" or something.
In the lobby is a coffee vending machine. One of the questions on the test was about vending machines. I had to discuss whether or not I liked them. I found out during the test that yes, I do apparently. Everyone else who took the test must have just learned the same thing about themselves and now they're all lined up, dying for that cup of freeze dried coffee that they value so much. Out the window I see a chilly breeze blowing people's scarves against their faces outside, and my headache is on the run, but it's not going down without a fight, so all indications are that I'll be having a hot cup of powdered "Maxim" brand coffee too.
Outside I take big sips to finish it before a taxi stops. The hot liquid hits my stomach and the warm feeling is like someone telling me good news every time I swallow. It reminds me of being a kid, drinking hot chocolate after a day of playing in the snow. I usually drink coffee slowly and savor the taste, but this feeling in my stomach is too good. I'll have to do this every time I drink coffee. I feel stupid, like this is how everyone but me drinks coffee, and I've been missing the point. Then I think it over. I'm just cold right now. I'm not cold every time I drink coffee. Sometimes this is the way to drink coffee, and sometimes the other way is better. Crisis averted, and just in time to catch a taxi. There aren't trash cans in public here, so I put the paper cup in my pocket.
The driver is an affable-looking man with rosy cheeks and an argyle sweater. I instantly want to talk to him, but I know it's pointless. I say the line of Korean I always say to taxi drivers when I want to go home. "Take me to Dong Myong church please." He says "Dong Myong Church. I understand," and we start moving. Then, curiously, he blurts out a long string of words phrased as a question, but as usual, most of it is meaningless to me. Usually taxi drivers smile in bemusement, and ask me in a patronizing tone if I speak Korean. He didn't say anything about that, and now I'm really curious.
We're stopped at a stoplight now. "My Korean is not very good," I say in Korean, and the driver nods, forlorn, as they always do. Then I go on"...but please say that one more time." He doesn't, but he thinks for a second, then presses his hands together as in prayer, and bows his head.
"Ahhh." I say. "No." He wants to know, obviously, If I'll be attending church today. It's Sunday after all. I take a moment. "My home is near the church," I manage. The driver nods, and repeats my words back to me with slightly better phrasing and pronunciation, a technique I use when teaching English. We both nod, happy to have communicated.
He switches on the radio and changes the station. Taxi drivers in Korea largely listen to the news. Others listen to music by sorted genre, like anyone else. Most of the taxi drivers that listen to music choose "trot," a highly tolerable, up tempo polka type music meant to be danced to. Some listen to "popsong" which means oldies in English, and a significant minority listen to the insufferable downtempo love song genre called "ballad" which is populated by boy bands, and is what you usually hear in restaurants, and blasting at concert volumes when you walk past certain stores downtown.
This driver isn't listening to any of these. This is is some kind of flute playing a haunting, repetitive melody, over an irregular, nervous beat tapped out on what sounds like a paper drum. I have a thought when I hear it, that some music, newer music, rock for instance, is played on instruments adapted for a different purpose than their inventors intended. This music, on the other hand, sounds like it's being played by the inventor himself.
The driver taps the face of his radio, and says in English "Korea music."