The high school that I went to was a great school - it had a 100% pass rate, the facilities were top of the range, the classrooms were neat and tidy, each class had under 25 students and the teachers were always available to talk to if you needed them. It was a private high school, and it was fabulous. A lot of people say that they hate their high schools experiences, and I am not one of them. My high school days were some of the best.

One of the things that made my high school days better than those of primary school and marginally better than those of middle school (though the middle school was also a private school and part of the same system as my high school) was the uniform. In primary school, we had a very strict uniform. All the girls looked identical from their white collared skirts and ghastly maroon pinafores to their white socks and black shoes. On sports days we were allowed to wear tracksuits, but only on sports days. In winter the white socks were to be replaced with black tights of a regulated thickness, the short-sleeved collared shirts with long sleeved replicas, and a maroon tie was added to our repertoire of fashion decision-making. If your hair was long enough to touch your shirt collar, it had to be tied up and it had to be tied up neatly. Earrings were not allowed, and girls would often scramble for the nearest brush to pull out a pin to replace their earrings with. It tells you something about the military style of my primary school. Another not-so-fond memory that I have is of having to walk down the corridor in a long line being careful to tread within the boundaries of the third tile from the left. If we stepped out of line, there was hell to pay. The school wanted us all to be drones, perfect carbon-copies of each other and were prepared to beat us into submission if we didn't co-operate.

When I came to middle school, the uniform was slightly more relaxed. A far more dignified navy blue skirt accompanied a white shirt with the Herzlia badge. Your shoes had to be closed and black, but that was as far as the restrictions went (within reason of course - you couldn't exactly turn up in high heeled black boots and expect to get away with it.) We also had choices. If you didn't want to wear the white shirt, you could wear the blue gym shirt instead. If you didn't want to wear the skirt, you could wear your the navy tracksuit trousers. In winter, you could replace your short sleeved white shirt for a long one with a tie, but hardly anyone did that. Most opted for one of the two jerseys that we could choose between or their tracksuit jacket. It seemed like joyful freedom compared to the nazi-like inspection at the hands of the Welgemoed Primary School teachers. The school itself was far calmer as well. I recall sitting in a class and the teacher, Mr Rabbitz, calling on me from the front.
"Yes, Sir," I replied. The reply had been drilled into me when I was not even six years old, on the first day of primary school.
His face turned a dark red.
"This wasn't the military," he screamed, "and I am not a Sir!"
I had never been so frightened in my life. Everyone else thought it was hilarious.

And then I came to high school. I had heard of the joys of the high school uniform (though it could hardly be called a uniform anymore) but I hadn't dared to believe that they were true. You could choose between one of two golf-shirts, one of two jerseys, you could still wear the tracksuit if that was your cup of tea or you could wear your skirt. But, bliss of all bliss, you could wear jeans. There weren't regulation jeans - you could wear almost anything as long as it wasn't too embellished or flashy and you could wear a jean skirt as long as it wasn't too short. And so my high school years were spent in luxurious comfort. I even became a bit daring at times, leaving my hair loose, wearing the occasional item of jewellery, growing my nails as long as I wanted and investing in a pair of slightly platformed shoes that made me look a little taller than I was. I never got into any real trouble, though I do still remember being caught by Mrs. dos Santos wearing a plain white t-shirt underneath my hoodie. She wasn't impressed. I got told off and had to write her a note of apology. No harm, no foul.

By the time I left for University, jeans were my standard. You would hardly ever see me in anything other than jeans and a t-shirt unless it was a special occasion or all of them were in the wash. I would occasionally throw in a skirt or dress if I was feeling particularly girly or a pair of cargos if I was feeling particularly grungey, but jeans were my go-to.
"What are you going to wear to go out tonight?"
"My nice jeans and a sparkly/cleavagey/smart/combination-of-the above-top."
"What should I wear?"
"Jeans."
"But I was kind of thinking of wearing..."
"Jeans."
"What is the answer to life, the universe and everything else?"
"42. And jeans."
This was my way for four years.
And then I came to Korea...

Before I left South Africa, I felt the need to go on a shopping spree. Okay, so maybe more than one. But I was allowed to. I had gone through my closet and found that I had no appropriate clothes for a job as a teacher. Sparkly and cleavagey were unacceptable, my smart tops were too tight and, horror of all horrors, I wasn't going to be allowed to wear jeans to work. I had heard horror stories about trying to find clothes in Korea and I was not prepared to chance it. And so, I went out and bought some smart trousers, a handful of appropriate tops and a couple of skirts in the vain hope that I would bring myself to wear them. And then I got here.

For the first few months I refused to broach the shops, knowing that they would just make me feel fat and horrible and I would never ever find anything in them. And then, one day about a month ago, I wondered into LPM in Shinae. I was drawn to the pretty dresses and I couldn't resist. What was the worst that could happen? They wouldn't fit, I don't buy them, my money is saved for better things. And so I tried them. And to my surprise, they fit! I left that day with three dresses in hand, a small fortune having been spent, but feeling like I was rewarding myself for the weight that I had lost and the sense of accomplishment I had gained.
The next weekend came, and I made my way into Seoul where my friend convinced me to come shopping with her at the "Western-sized" H&M and Forever 21. Well, it's summer, so I need shorts. And the top is too pretty to resist, I must have it. And I need a world-cup shirt in support of South Africa anyway!
The next week I was back in Seoul for the Mika concert. Even though Dawn needed to go back to Forever 21, I convinced myself that I could resist.
"I don't have to buy anything! I have enough clothes! I can live without!"
And then my resistance weakened ever so slightly.
"Okay, well I will just try it on. That doesn't mean that I have to buy it!"
And then even more.
"Well I like it, but I am not going to buy something that I just like. It has to be something that I love."
I ended up leaving with yet another dress.
"That is the last," I said to myself. "No more! Bad Lara! No biscuit!"
And I was very good for the rest of the month. Until yesterday, when I wondered back into LPM with Shaina.
It started off well enough as it always does, just looking and commenting and touching fondly, avoiding taking anything to try on. But as soon as someone else picks something to try and I know that I will have time to waste, I can't resist trying something on. I tried them all, one at a time, and one looked pretty good.
"It's not expensive," I say to myself. "It won't even come close to breaking the bank. What harm can it really do?"
But it was the gateway that led to me buying another shirt that I didn't really need (though I do love it to pieces) and a pair of leggings. I wanted to buy more, but did manage to resist.
Which is why, when Amy asked me to go shopping with her tonight, I politely declined. I know that another shopping spree will push me over the edge. I won't be able to resist!
And a big part of me doesn't want to.

I realised something this weekend. Or perhaps re-affirmed is more apt, since I already knew this thing, but had been doubting myself of late. I really really don't like sports.

Despite my telling my friends this on multiple occasions, they seemed to believe that I had somehow not experienced sport in the right way and therefore convinced me that I should try it one more time by coming along to the South Korea vs. Uraguay World Cup game on Saturday night. This was the first World Cup game that I would watch from start to finish, and hopefully the last.

Patrick and I decided early on that we would try to avoid the crowds when we went to watch the game, and thus made our way to Pearl Jam, a smaller pub that was likely to be full of Koreans, but less full than anywhere else. But, on our way to Pearl Jam we happened past Buzz Bar where we bumped into a group of my friends, and Patrick convinced me that it would be a good idea to watch with them. And so we made our way into a crowded Buzz Bar, and found some spots in the crowded room on the slightly raised platform. Bar stools or couches would have been preferable, but all of those were full, so we made do. We could see the projector, we were in good spirits, everything was good.

The game started and the vibe was great - a Korean had found himself a cheaper, plastic replica of the cheap, plastic vuvuzelas and would occasionally blow it to the tune of "Dae han min guk" (Korea), which was followed by choruses of the tune itself. Alcohol was flowing freely (though I decided not to partake in this, not wanting to be nursing a giant hangover on a Sunday morning). People were chattering away happily. The first half of the game went by in a happy blur. I wasn't watching too much of the soccer but was rather happily chatting away, sipping on a drink, joining in with the singing and occasionally glancing at the screen. And then the first half ended. The break was spent trying to hold peoples places and watching their drinks while they ran to the store to get cigarettes or made their way to the crowded bar for more alcohol.

The second half started and more people had arrived. I had been pushed further down the platform and was stuck sitting behind a group of people in chairs. I could see between them if they were sitting down and sitting still, but of course that was the minority of the time. Not that it bothered me too much, of course, since I was too preoccupied with how uncomfortably squashed I had become and trying to have conversations over the shouting fans. People started to become pushy and were getting riled up with excitement over the game, and I was not enjoying it. I looked at the screen. Only 7 minutes had passed. The second half of the game dragged by as I counted down the minutes until it would end. Yes, I wanted Korea to win, but I didn't want to be in a room hearing about it. But, as you know, Korea didn't win. And after the game I made a quick escape before someone could talk me into staying for the America game.

And so it dawned on me in the taxi on my way home that I am not made for sports. Though I occasionally enjoy playing one or two, I have never enjoyed watching them. One exception to this rule is Grand Prix, and even that isn't so much enjoyment as it is tolerance. I can go and watch a race and have a good time, but it is not something that I generally go out of my way to do. If I enjoyed it, surely I would have made some kind of effort to watch a race out here. But that hasn't been the case. When Grant comes, I am sure that we will watch many a race together. But until then, I can't really be too bothered to find a pub that is playing it on a Sunday afternoon, and quiz seems far more entertaining on a Sunday evening.

Looking at other people's blogs, I get the feeling that I really don't post enough! So here I am, trying to post more about my everyday life in what is now sunny, sticky, steamy Korea.

This week marked my fourth month in Korea. It doesn't feel like four months have passed, and I am going to take that as a good thing. Last month, it seemed like the three months that I had been here had taken forever, and yet here I am, one month later, feeling like I really haven't been here all that long. I think that means that things are starting to get better again. Last month I looked around my apartment and had a minor panic attack thinking that there was no way in hell that I could stay here for nine more months. Today I walked to school and there was a feeling of contentment that surrounded me. Just looking around me at the kids walking to school and the people cycling to work, I had a feeling that everything was really going to be okay. I didn't mind so much that the people around me were speaking a language that I couldn't understand, though last month that was one of the main reasons I was considering leaving (though, to be fair, it was more that no one could understand what I was saying rather than not being able to understand what they were saying). Everything just had a very familiar air about it. I was walking down a street that I had come to recognise, I automatically looked left then right when trying to cross the road. I just didn't feel quite as out of place as I have been feeling recently.

This week was also the first time in three months when I didn't have tutorials to worry about. I took advantage of that on Tuesday night by going out to dinner with my friend, Amy, and though the dinner was not the greatest, the company was good and I had a nice time in general, which always tends to happen when I hang out with Amy. Thursday night I took advantage of the extra time off in a different way - by just staying home and relaxing. It was a nice change from the hurried preparations that would happen after school and the precious ten minute naps that I would enjoy before rushing out the door to my tutlings.

The upcoming weekend is likely to be another of quiet contemplation, series and a sprinkle of partying spread in between. Tonight, there is Indian food and norebang with Shai, Jen and Dawn (a girls night out, which I feel should become a regular occurence, since my girls nights out have been sorely missed since my university days, and were rare even then). Tomorrow is movie night with Patrick and possibly his co-teacher, Ashley, followed by food and soccer. And Sunday night is quiz nite, as always, and hopefully this week I will stand a chance at winning! We shall see.

In the meantime, I am going to return to my day at work, which is looking rather empty and boring. But hey, I'm not complaining - it's better than being busy and overworked!

Five years ago, I was at crossroads in my life. High school was coming to a close and there were choices that needed to be made. What was I going to do next?
Go to university like my parents wanted me to do?
And study what exactly?
Take a gap year?
Travel the world?
Find a job?
A year earlier, my sister had been faced with some choices of her own - her university career was coming to a close and she could get a permanent job or take a gap year. She decided on the gap year option, and she looked at a number of different possibilities, including that of teaching abroad. Though I was never involved in the decision-making process, the prospect of teaching abroad was the one that appealed to me the most. It wasn't her final decision - she instead decided to work on cruise ships in the Caribbean - but the idea stuck in my head, and a year later when I was making decisions of my own, the idea was looking very very appealing. I didn't get very far with the planning of it at that stage, since my parents were pretty adament that I would go to university before anything else, but the idea stuck in the back of my mind.

Three years later, I was at another crossroads. I was about to finish my degree. I had applied to do a post-graduate diploma, but I was worried that I wouldn't get into the programme and I wanted to be prepared for that possibility. The idea of teaching abroad which had been at the back of my mind for three years came to the foreground when I got an e-mail from Teach Korea, a company based in Cape Town that looked for bright eyed and bushy tailed graduates to come and teach on this side of the world. I hadn't really considered Korea before then - I had been focussing my attention on Thailand, but had recently heard that it wasn't really the place to go. And then this opportunity fell into my lap. Teaching in Korea. It didn't sound too bad to me. I looked at the benefits, and almost responded to the e-mail right then and there saying "sign me up". But then I got a response from the journalism department. I had been accepted into the post-graduate diploma programme. I had been given an amazing opportunity, and I wasn't about to let that pass me by. Korea could wait, I decided.

I started my journalism course and got stuck into it. I put my heart and soul into the programme and loved it to pieces. But, on the sideline, I was still doing research. I looked into Thailand once more, and decided that it definitely wasn't the place for me. I looked into Japan, but the cost of living was too high and the benefits weren't even close to those that I would get in Korea. I looked into China, but found that they wouldn't accept me because I have no prior teaching experience. I looked into Taiwan, but the pay wasn't as good and and I would have to pay for my own apartment on top of the reduction in salary. My focus was always on Asia, since I wanted to go somewhere that was completely out of my comfort zone. I wanted an experience, and in my mind going somewhere completely removed from the Western world was the only way I could guarantee getting that. And so I went through my options and started gathering my paperwork and filling out applications.
Resumes.
Police Clearances.
Reference Letters.
Interviews.
Teaching course.
Though the teaching course wasn't compulsary, I had been told that it would help my cause a great deal and make it easier for me to get a job as a teacher in Korea and anywhere else in the world. So I went for it. By December I was told that I had been accepted for the February intake, and I couldn't have been happier. It was perfect - I would have two months to prepare myself, to save up some money and invest in some work-appropriate clothing, to say goodbye to my friends and family, and to come to terms with moving halfway across the world. I was told that I would have my contract by the beginning of January, and so I waited with baited breathe.

The beginning of January came and went. I had sent e-mails to the company asking what was happening, but got no response. I had been informed late in December that the contracts could arrive as far in the future as mid- to late January, but I started getting nervous. By the time the 20th came around, I was a nervous wreck. Screw it, I decided, I was phoning them. The call was one of the hardest I have ever been through. Being told that I had been shortlisted, rejected, that I could leave as late as August if then and trying not to cry while I was being told this was nightmarish. I hung up the phone and realised that I would have to find a job. A decent job, that is, rather than the one that I already had working for my aunt on a part-time basis. Three weeks, they said. They would give me three weeks of notice before I would have to leave.

I started the job hunt that I had seen Michael going through, and though I did better than him initially, getting lots of interviews and lots of praise, I couldn't find anything even vaguely decent. I slipped into a mild depression, feeling that everything in my life was going wrong. And then, one morning, while driving Michael to an interview, I got the call. My contract was on its way. They wanted me to leave in a week and a half. From there it was a rush of
getting contracts read and signed by various parties,
shopping,
booking plane tickets,
shopping,
getting contracts signed,
shopping,
quitting my part-time job and,
oh yeah,
SHOPPING!
I had to prepare for the cold winter that I would be facing. I had a week and a half to get ready, and somehow I managed. My contract arrived on the Monday after the phone call and was quickly scanned, signed, and sent off to Pretoria along with my visa application.
"It will be ready on Wednesday and we want you to leave on Thursday."
Tuesday morning came the call from the Korean embassy.
"You forgot to sign the last page."
Sending off another contract to Pretoria.
"It will be ready on Thursday and we want you to leave on Friday."
"It will be ready on Friday morning and we want you to pick it up at the airport."
"It will be ready on Friday afternoon and we want you to leave on Saturday."
"Perhaps it is best if you leave on Monday."
All of this came in the midst of hurried goodbyes and dealing with Catherine from Pangea Travels who insisted that I travel with them despite their plane tickets being R1000 more expensive than the airline was advertising for the same flight. Eventually the day arrived, and I left South Africa, a 21 year old recent graduate with no real work experiences who had never travelled on her own.

I arrived in Korea an inexperienced bundle of nerves, hardly prepared for what it would be like, and hardly prepared to be a role-model to teenage children. But that is what I have become, or at the very least what I am becoming. This is the story of my year in Korea - the ups, the downs, the happiness, the sadness and all the details of the things that happen in between. Enjoy.

This week I have been sick. I hate being sick. There is nothing worse in the world than being sick. Except, perhaps, being sick in Korea.