The students agreed on a Robadiakki, or Japanese style restaurant. As I kicked off my shoes and bent down to the low table, I dreaded having to sit "Indian Style" for a couple of hours with no backrest. I slid my legs under the table, and surprisingly found room to comfortably dangle my feet under the table.

I had only been teaching English in Korea for a month when my students spontaneously proposed a class party. I accepted the teaching position immediately after graduation from my university in 1994, solely hoping to escape the doldrums of office work. I had not considered that Asian style partying would also be part of the job description.

Nick looked at me, "Miss Mashi," and took a deep breath like he was a child in a spelling bee, not an adult who golfs on the weekends, "do you mind if I smoke?" He lifted his head high. He said it perfectly without any mistakes.

"Only if you mind if I do!" I chimed, asking permission to smoke. I was dying for a cigarette but my American colleagues forewarned me of the rude implications of smoking in front of men, especially older men. I was also told that if I asked permission, it would probably be okay.

Nick leaned over the table, both hands clasping the lighter, and gave me a light. I tried to show respect as I had been taught and received the flame with both hands. After he lit my smoke, one of the younger students to his right snatched the lighter from his hands and, using both hands, lit Nick’s cigarette for him.

Smoking didn’t calm my nerves as I had hoped. No one spoke and the other students simply watched Nick and me smoke. I thought about initiating a conversation, but what could I talk about? I didn’t know how to start with the small talk as we had already covered introductions the first day of class. I was expected to know where they worked, where they went to school, and how old they were. I was too embarrassed to ask them again, because I didn’t want them to know that I had forgotten. Age, job title, gender, marital status and number of children are the little pieces of information that are very important to know in Korean life. These details systematically weave their way into the levels of respect assigned to each person.

Another student, Mac, asked me, "Miss Mashi, are you hungry? Have you eaten?"

I thought, yes, I ate dinner, it’s ten o’clock at night, but I have also heard that it’s rude to turn food down. What do I do? "I have already eaten dinner, but are you hungry?"

"Are you hungry," he pressed.

"I’ll eat something if you want something." I felt like we were going round and round.

Yunee interjected, "Ms. Mashi, can you eat spicy food?"

"Oh, I love spicy food," I replied, relieved the go-round had stopped.

"And how about raw fish-ie?"

"Fish," the other students corrected her.

Once again she tried, "Do you like raw fish?"

"Not really, but if you want some, please order some."

The students carried on again in their native language, pointing at various items on the menu. After Nick ordered for the group, In Jun, an Engineering student at one of the neighboring universities asked, "Do you have a hobby?"

Hobby? I thought only the elderly and people with desk jobs had hobbies to fill their days. Collecting stamps and making model airplanes were not for me. I write, but I wouldn’t consider it a hobby. I used to play tennis, before I took up smoking, and I could say reading, but is reading really a hobby?

In Jun continued, "Do you like pocket ball?"

"What’s pocket ball?" I questioned.

He lifted his arms like a mime playing pool and said, "Pocket ball."

"Oh! Pool! Yes, I love to shoot pool!"

The students mimicked the expression "shoot pool" and a few wrote it down on a napkin, questioning the spelling.

By this time, the lesson was finished and our food had arrived. Pork, lettuce, carrots and long green onions, tumbled like divers in the bubbling broth, plunging into the huge ceramic bowl, then coming up for air. The waiter placed at least a dozen 44oz. bottles of beer in the center of the table and about four bottles of soju. Soon the huge table was covered with three more bowls of soup, dishes of raw fish, seaweed, cabbage leaves with red pepper sauce and at least a few dozen more small dishes that I couldn’t even begin to identify. The air was full of hot spices, fish and the friendly clanking of glasses for a toast to our first class party.

After a couple shots of soju, I began to feel less and less like a teacher and more and more like a little girl. I swung my feet under the table because the tabletop reached up tall, even with my armpits. I figured they took me to the Robadiakki with the tallest tables, as Americans are all the tallest people in the world, I mused myself.

As the students slurped soup and soju, Kum He explained the bond behind Korean style drinking, "You can’t trust a person until you have drunk together." Also, as the teacher I was expected to designate what we order and how much, who smokes and who speaks. It was my responsibility, especially as a woman, to have good ki-bun- to keep the mood light or create a good atmosphere. But I didn’t care who smoked, ate, or spoke. I couldn’t even read a Korean menu. But these were to be my responsibilities while in their country.

Kum He continued, "Teacher, we don’t think you understand us".

In spite of the amount of alcohol I had consumed, I felt the embarrassment in my stomach constricting my insides, forcing all the blood in my body to my head. I didn’t want them to know that it was so true. I couldn’t understand them most of the time, but that night, of course after a lot of drinking, their English did improve. But in class, strong accents, mixed idioms and poor grammar made it difficult to comprehend the most basic conversations.

"We just need more practice," I said, hoping not to insult them.

"Ah, practice". They mimicked together. "Much speaking. More speak" ,and they raised their glasses for another toast. "What is right? Much or more?"

My head was circling. Much, more, more, much. My God, I have lost my mind. And we toasted again.

"More conversation," I said hoping that would solve the problem.

"Why?" they questioned after another toast.

I didn’t know why. Just because. It sounds better. And even if I did know how to explain the difference of the proper usage of much and more, I didn’t feel like being the after-hours teacher anymore.

"Just because". And we toasted again.

"Teacher, we think someday you will be a good teacher."

And there it was- I was a terrible teacher. With the combination of high alcohol in my blood and high expectations in my head, my spirit shattered easily. My mind spun out like a hyperactive child on a sugar crash: who was I trying to fool? Why did I have to go half way around the globe just to discover I am a failure at teaching? Oh how dramatic the soul can be while smothered in Asian wine!

I looked up from staring deep into the tabletop, pondering my fate, and the red-faced students were looking at me. "Miss Mashi, your face is red like us Koreans! We think you must be Korean! Soju makes red face!" They pointed and laughed at each student whose face was bright red.

I realized I needed to shake off my soju-enhanced self-pity and rejoin the party.

"Practice!" they smiled and toasted, "We all must practice!" and we clinked glasses together again." Suddenly, the students stood up and collected their things. "We think Mack will walk you home. He makes good bodyguard. He is tough guy." They gracefully slid on their shoes as I struggled with my laces and clumsy fingers.

When we left the Robadiakki, we staggered like a wave washing back and forth, slowly down the beachfront road. With two of my female students arm and arm on each side of me, and the men singing Korean love songs behind us, we wandered up the winding street toward the main road.