Note to the galley:

My junior year at Whitman, the intercollegiate debate topic was something like "Resolved that the Federal Government should substantially change it's policy towards Indian Country in one or more of the following areas: ...." Early in the year, when we had no idea what anyone was actually going to say (beyond that it would involve Indian Country and "one or more of the following areas") someone produced a file whose index contained the following two entries:

"You say Indians are just like us: that's racist!"
"You say Indians are not like us: that's racist!"

(There was also the litany of evidence arguing that anything less specific than "Lakota" was racist/not racist). Every now and then, I worry that I'm going to cross that line on this blog. Obviously, there are some assumptions that were safe in America, but have nothing to do with the way things are done in Korea (e.g. I'm pretty sure "personal space" isn't much of a concept over here). On average, that makes me uncomfortable. I know how to live in America - I've had 28 years to figure out (note the lack of the word "perfect") the art - so any time I comment on how things are different over here, it's going to read like "things are different over here and I don't like it."

Several times since arriving here, I've ordered something I've never had before at a restaurant. It arrives. I examine it. I start eating it in a way that makes sense to me and allows me to figure out what, exactly, everything is and tastes like. Invariably, I'm eating it wrong, and the waiter/owner feels the need to point this out. Sometimes this is as unintrusive as the porridge lady pointing out that I have an empty bowl into which I can ladle my porridge (instead of eating it straight out of the big bowl with the ladle). Sometimes it involves the owner dumping the sauce that came separately with my meal onto my meal before I have decided whether or not I actually want the sauce (today's sauce had ice crystals in it - Koreans apparently aren't fans of warm noodles - so the answer was probably going to be "no thanks"). I'm sure this is somehow related to the man who helped me hoist my suitcase up the stairs in the subway station the day I first arrived here (incidentally, the exact same thing happened when I was helping Rebecca carry her luggage earlier this month). Kyung Kiu described it as a need by elders to treat every young man as if he were their son. Therefore, let's just pretend that I wrote about it and that I said something with an appropriate amount of sarcasm.

While we're talking about noodles, can I just point out that Korean noodles are long. I'm pretty sure the characteristic unit in question is the meter. They are also very thin, meaning that, when you order a bowl of noodles, you don't actually get a bowl of noodles so much as a Gordian Knot of food. Unfortunately, unlike Alexander, all you have is a spoon and chopsticks, so good luck (did I mention that they're very elastic, so teeth literally won't cut it, either?).

Finally: the noodles were blue and the title of this post was meant to make some of you think of "Note to the galley: Romulan ale no longer to be served at diplomatic functions." It probably didn't do that.

So, yeah, I guess this post is about noodles.
And my fear of making normative statements about people.