it's by no means uncomfortable, bu i'm starting to lose my sense of reality. When I wake up in the morning, not only am I unsure if I had any dreams (I certain did, but I can't remember them), I doubt whether the events of the previous evening actually occurred. Mind you this has nothing to do with any chemical substances (like wine), bvut rather the surreality of the events themselves. I sometimes have to pinch myself or rub out my eyes to come to my senses. Am I really traveling the world? Did I really just wake up this late? Was the air really that cold last night that I was shivering in my sleep? It's weird because I'm shivering but hot at the same time. It's hot because the electric heated mattress underneath me was much too hot at "10" so I kicked out my legs from under the blanket, where they were summarily frozen in the stark Chicago midnight.

Last night I had one of the best nights in recent memory. I met with a bunch of Cheryl's friends, some for dinner and some afterwards while waiting in line at the Violet Hour, a great cocktail lounge in Wicker Park. Despite the 1.5 hour wait, we were treated to a very nice 4-top booth in the swanky room, where we quickly converged over a very nice bowl of punch to lubricate banter and badinage.

Afterwards the three girls were being obnoxious and delightful, high-fiving random strangers and munching on delicious Chicago style hot dogs. Wicker Park has this crazy six street intersection where hundreds of cars pass and what seems like thousands of pedestrians wander around in drunken stupor. Some guy "sold" me his hot dog because I had to wait in line for like 20 minutes after him. Nice guy. Hot dog was delicious, chock full of pickles, mustard, relish, tomato, and cucumber. Those Chicagoans sure know how to eat.

Cheryl's hungry so we're off to get pho. It's a perfect day for a hot bowl of pho.

I never thought I’d fall in love with the mother country. I’d previously had much disdain for Korea, making fun of FOBs (fresh off the boat). I regret not ever learning Korean to the capacity that someone of my heritage should have learned. I’m picking it up quite well and I can pass for a local using some choice phrases, but sometimes a conversation at the store goes dead when I look back in a despondent or confused look, obvious that I didn’t understand what was just said to me. Either way, the food has been incredible. It’s like tasting inferior versions of everything you’ve known in life, only to be introduced to their Platonic ideals, in ideal settings and ideal circumstances. There’s nothing quite like cha-chang-myun while hovered over the dusty but latex covered keyboard of a PC Bang cubicle, hustling to slurp up the noodles during the quick break from Starcraft (the Dragoons are attacking my base!). Better yet, a nice crisp shot of some sweet, fragrant spirit interspersed between large bites of gamjatang, a stew of hulking pork neck bones in a fiery red broth. My first meal of varied fried fish in the swanky, bustling district of Gangnam featured me clobbering down food at such a rapid pace that I sometimes forgot to breathe. It was that good, and I was just that hungry.

This city truly never sleeps. I’ve been home as late as 4:30 or 5AM and people are still out and about. The lights just gleam off of every surface, and nothing is as arresting as crossing the Han River in the dead of night, the tiny orbs of apartment buildings, office towers, and low-flung edifices shining off in every which distance and reflecting off the grand, wide surface of water.

There’s a puerility of life from bearing children, something I see so evidently in my friend Shelly. She gave birth to a cheerful son a little over a year ago. When I visited her last month at her home in Newmarket, England, she seemed so happy. Her life was so simple, comprised mainly of taking care of her son and tending to her husband after he finished a long work day. In the two days that I spent at her and Spencer’s home, I saw such a great change in Shelly’s life. Back when we were in university, we would study our business subjects together, late into the night. She was very motivated to be a career woman. After graduating, we both found jobs in Beverly Hills. We eventually started carpooling to work together, which made the dreadful drive through some of LA’s most traffic-clogged streets more bearable. It was great fun, but I often became the sounding board for many of Shelly’s office drama and problems. I remember how stressed out she was with the full load of work and all the difficulties with coworkers at the accounting firm where she worked as the human resources associate.

Now seeing her life in England, she seems easily pleased with the simplest things in life, such as good iced latte from Costa Coffee or the stroll through town. It seemed that those problems from Beverly Hills were a million miles a away from her, with her pride and joy contained in the 25 pounds of her year-old son, Shane. And that little boy was a bundle of happiness. He is very large for his age, the size of a three or four year old despite having the mind of an infant. He can’t walk or talk yet, though the depth of his facial expressions is rightfully cherubic and divine. I can see how such a boy could make things so different for a young mother.

I often wonder what it would take for me to get this sense of simplicity back in my life. After a whirlwind year, I’m contemplating moving to Japan for a long period of time. It seems that a position is open at the local school, where I can teach middle school and gain a schedule which permits me to have a very quiet life in the outskirts of Nagoya. I’d earn enough to get by. I’d be around people that I like, and I’d be able to learn a new language. Life was be so simple at first, because I wouldn’t have the ability to talk to anybody like I do now. I can sit at a café completely undisturbed for hours. I can eat at a restaurant and not feel particularly alone because I wouldn’t be able to talk to anyone anyways. Even now, after spending two weeks here, I can feel that unction of simplicity creeping into my life, something I very much appreciate. Despite the higher cost of coffee at Starbucks, I can sit here and watch the various business workers, or the young college students chatter away. I can wonder all I want what they’re talking about but I can’t understand a lick of it. I can enjoy the old jazz standard tunes coming through the Bose speakers and let the hours pass. The rain alternates in grey skies and the clatter of cups and espresso machines gives just the right ambient noise. I can enjoy a book or a lengthy passage of the Bible, and relish every word. I can sip coffee and actually feel the caffeine jumping into my veins, simmering my mood and giving my wrists just the slightest edge of jitter.

I was telling Cullen Hartley yesterday over an early dinner of ramen that I would like this life. It’s such an extreme change from L.A. Sure I’d miss the restaurants, the bars, and nightlife, and driving, the long evenings in Hollywood. Instead of endless sun and perfect sunsets and amber light, I get this ecru light, this slightly muddy mellow illumination of the Japanese sky. I’d have to get used to cars driving on the left, but maybe I’m already there, since this is the third straight country where cars drive on the left. Both England and Indonesia drive on the wrong side. I’m almost used to looking to my right first before crossing the street. I’m definitely loving my morning commute on the bike. Bikes are terrific to ride, except for when it’s raining. Actually scratch that, I actually really like biking in the rain, one arm on the handle bars and the other holding a translucent umbrella. I hear it’s illegal to ride like that, but I haven’t gotten caught yet.