The Old Korean Inn

Two zany ladies in their mid-thirties ran the place, an otherwise no-frills inn with five or six rooms

Nearly always smiling, the ladies of
my Korean inn

and an austere garden. Their antics created an oasis for me over the course of a year, down an otherwise unremarkable street about three blocks from my university.

I was greeted with a knock on my door early each morning. Ms. Han or Ms. Bae would bring my breakfast on a tray-usually rice in a metal bowl, soup, fish and several side dishes of vegetables or black beans along with some barley tea. Before I left for the day, they always would ask if I would be home for supper. 

My days there were strands of solace in place and time.  The world inside the heavy metal gate was warm and comforting. On cold days the heated floors drew me in like a toasty pouch. I washed at the outside faucet. Hot water was only a dream.

As with any stage, there was a cast of unusual characters. The cute little girl who brightened my day like a wild spring flower. Friends of Ms. Bae or Ms. Han who came to share gossip and play Korean card games. There were, of course, other guests too, though they brought an itinerant sense to the place, coming and going, fleeting glimpses of life at the inn.

The sign says "yo-gwan," Korean for inn. I washed
here, along with other guests.

In those days inns were almost everywhere in Korea. Their rooms were on one or two floors in layer cake fashion, or if older style, off wooden verandas that surrounded quiet gardens with tiny ponds. Shoes outside a door would trip your imagination about the guests inside and their stories.

Like the old Korean coffee shops and public baths, these inns have all but disappeared. They were the anchors of Korean neighborhoods, places of tradition and social sanctity. The winds of change have swept through Korean society leaving the likes of motels and Starbucks in their place.  My old inn? The inn, the street, the entire neighborhood, were razed by bulldozers years ago. Now only memories remain, entrusted to me and perhaps to a little girl with a smile.

Korea In the Side-View Mirror: Reflections of a Former Peace Corps Volunteer

It was pure serendipity. The acceptance letter from Washington arrived September 2nd 1973, smack on my birthday. Wherever I was assigned, I thought, I was surely meant to go. Less than 3-months later, I found myself on a very cold hillside, overlooking a lake on the outskirts of Daegu, South Korea's 3rd largest city. Fifty of us, naive and hopeful Peace Corps Volunteers, from nearly every corner of the U.S., were about to embark on a transformative 90-day training experience that included Korean language training, cross-cultural understanding, and teaching English as a second language.

With Korean friends at a local park, Spring 1975

After our swearing-in ceremony at the U.S. Embassy in Seoul, I was assigned to teach English at Keimyung College in Daegu. Korea in those days was a developing country; there was virtually no middle class, few private cars, our classrooms were either freezing cold or sweltering, and always poorly lit. But Korean students then were all on a mission--working hard to succeed in school and to learn English to help propel their country forward. Little did they know they were indeed participating in a historic economic miracle.

Life as a Peace Corps volunteer then was challenging. There were few expats, fewer phones, and if you sent a letter home, you'd be lucky to hear back in 4-6 weeks, if at all. Communication was face to face. You would make arrangements days in advance to meet at a specific time and place, write it down and keep your fingers crossed. Students clamored for time with you to practice their English and to find out as much as possible about the world outside Korea. It was, as the Peace Corps ad says, "The toughest job you will ever love."

Several of my students at Keimyung College in Daegu in 1974

When I left Korea in the mid-seventies I was certain I would never see it again. As the years passed, the recollections of my life in Korea crystallized into increasingly romanticized memories. They became nearer and dearer to me in my life's side-view mirror.

Caution: Memories Are Closer and More Powerful Than They Appear

I married, raised a family and enjoyed a career in human resource management, banking, teaching and consulting--all of which allowed me to travel internationally and to keep the wanderlust, first acquired during my Peace Corps days, well nourished. Much to my surprise, business took me back to Korea, first for the 1988 Summer Olympics in Seoul, and then on several trips to lead management seminars for Korean managers. Korea just kept calling me. Eventually, I answered.

Fast forward to 2011. Korea, now the 15th strongest economy in the world, welcomed me back as a professor of English. I have returned to the same metropolitan area I once lived in as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I am now on the faculty of Yeungnam University, a vibrant, international campus with 27,000 students.

Current students enjoying a lighter moment before
the start of class. Yeungnam University, Fall 2014.

My Korean students today are the sons and daughters of those very spirited students I taught years ago. My two stints in Korea have become bookends on my life. Who says you can't go home again?

What's In a Name?

It seemed like an insignificant event at the time, as normal as licking a stamp and placing it in the corner of an envelope, or like leaving a bookmark on the last page you’ve read in a book. Little did I appreciate the gift and the meaning it would have in my life, as Professor Chae Joon-ki handed me the sheet of paper.

The professor had studied the names of each of the Peace Corps volunteers in our group in Korea. Using the letters and sounds from our first and last names in English, he tried to create a Korean name that would be a meaningful match.

Professor Chae Joon-ki in 1974

I was given the name Song Su Nam. As Korean tradition places the surname name first, my family name is Song, from the Chinese Song Dynasty. Su, means long, like the length of a river, or a life of many years. Nam, is Korean for namja or man. 

That's me, aka Song Su Nam, as a Peace Corps Volunteer (1975)

Since that cold, sunny, January day in 1974, my Korean second name has taken on special meaning for me. I've envisioned myself an old, wise man who lived in Korea during the days of the Song Dynasty, sometime between 960-1279.

Actually, I am quite proud of my original birth surname Schuit, which is purely Dutch for “boat.” That would have been the vehicle that transported my grandparents to America during the second decade of the 20^th century. The name was probably chosen in the early 1800’s as a result of a mandate from Napoleon who, as he conquered Europe, dictated last names as a sign of modernization. No doubt, my ancestors’ occupation had something to do with the sea.

My Korean name, however, has come to take on a bit of magic in its own right. Years ago I had my Korean name inscribed on a traditional Korean stamp (doh-jang). Until fairly recently, the outline of your name, in thick red ink, constituted your signature in all official transactions here.

My Korean name stamp

When referred to endearingly by Korean friends, the word “shi” is added verbally as a suffix, making my given Korean name, Su Nam shi, an expression of closeness and caring in a relationship.

Recently, I acted on a long standing, but unfulfilled intention to get a tattoo. In a tattoo parlor in the Gangnam District in Seoul, In-nyung, a lovely, quiet, young artist took me full circle. On my right leg, she drew the name given to me over forty years ago by Professor Chae. Long since retired from Kyungbuk National University, I was sad to learn that he passed away just a week or two after I got my tattoo.

My Korean name

A name, of course, can be more than just a “handle.” Sometimes, it’s a passport to an entirely different world.