CLUMSINESS

Humourous Stories From My Travels That Will Make You Thankful You're Not Me


They call me Grace। And not in the “hey, that’s your real name” way, but in a more “sarcastic and
slightly annoyed but not at all surprised” way which is usually followed by an eyeroll and a reach for a dry napkin.

I’m really not kidding. Friends and family await my next disaster the way an Albertan anticipates snow in May (that is to say with hopeful optimism that it won't happen but with a knowing deep down that it probably will). Waitresses almost always give me more napkins than anyone else at the table – before we even start eating! I must give off a vibe. Tis the way it’s always been and the way, I fear, it perhaps always will be.

I do try to be proactive. I returned those cute kitten heels upon the realization that there was an excellent chance I would fall on my face in front of thousands of people as I walked across the stage to get my degree. I walk into places like Pier One and the figurine aisle of the dollar store with the trepidation and carefulness one would comparably use during an intense game of Operation. And if I ever find myself in the vicinity of something sparkly and pretty, I back away quietly – unless of course it’s a vampire (Team Edward yo!)

In hindsight I’m not sure why I thought that changing continents and cultures would remedy this unfortunate situation. Someone should have warned me that going to Korea – a country of nearly 50 million people crammed inside a peninsula a quarter the size of Alberta with large expanses of ocean to the south, east and west and a hostile Elvis-impersonating dictator to the north wouldn’t be a good idea. Where does one go if one cannot swim and is not heavily armed with nuclear weapons and good tidings of sequin, pomade and cognac?

At nearly 6 feet tall and blonde, you can imagine I was a shock to most Koreans. The Amazonian qualities that would have served me well in, well, the Amazon, were completely lost on many of the dark- haired, petite, and vertically challenged of Korea. During my time there I found myself constantly smacking my head on the ceilings of buses and people glared when I *gasp* took up ALL of my allotted seat on the subway. Bathroom stalls were my continually perplexing nemesis as I couldn’t figure out how to get in and close the door without molesting the toilet or actually stepping in it, and then sit down without my knees making indentations in the door. There were also times where upon entering the stall I still had a full view of the bathroom outside over the top of the door. Good times. Good times.

I even kicked it like Bilbo in a hobbit attic for a whole year where I had to sit down to shower and limbo to the watercooler. I could only be fully upright at the peak of the roof of the house. I spent a lot of time under that peak having suffered at least 3 minor concussions during the year – once just getting toast from the toaster. The door jams were about 4 inches tall as well so you can imagine the tripping-hazard hijinks that ensued there! It truly is a wonder my body is not now doubling as a cockroach buffet on the floor.

But alas, dishware was my demise.

Now, I’ve spent most of my life washing dishes and I’ve really never had too much of a problem. I’ve got pretty massive hands but the glasses in Canada are made hearty for hot rum toddies, hot chocolate, and chilled beer. Now, I’m not saying I’ve never broken a glass before – IKEA is not necessarily quality craftsmanship – but there’s never really been severe injury. I’ve never even really hurt myself in the kitchen. A few minor burns, an unfortunate frozen pierogy-separation incident (it was cool - I saw bone), the spontaneous combustion of an innocent pot of noodles and one misplaced step backwards onto an open dishwasher is all! I swear. I've even used a hotplate as a space heater without cause for medical intervention. But in Korea, the Gods were against me. The small-handed Korean Kitchen Gods with their minutely-circumferenced glasses brought me to my knees.

Here is my story.

One such evening I found myself in my apartment with nary an English-speaking soul around. I had just arrived back in Korea and was setting up shop in my new apartment. My roommate Sam was out falling down flights of stairs at an amusement park and partaking in rollercoaster awfulness that would have left me in a pool of vomit if I had gone. So, at midnight – probably still a little jet-lagged – I decide that I am not tired and will do the dishes. No problem. Moonjay Opsoyo as they say over there. Well…I’ve never seen dishwater turn such a lovely shade of crimson before –not even after washing out the beet pot.

As I attempted to clean out the inside of a glass, it decided that breaking and slicing deep into my skin leaving a pretty crescent-shaped flap under my right pinky was infinitely more exciting than actually staying intact. It was pretty disgusting and also pretty awesome. It didn’t hurt at all but it really bled a lot. So - I’m alone in the apartment with no clean dishtowels in the immediate vicinity to stem the flow of blood. I ran to the bathroom leaving a trail of blood spatter in my wake Dexter would be proud of. I pondered my next move. I have no idea where a hospital is, I can’t speak the language, and all my identification that says I’m allowed to actually be in the country is sitting at the immigration office awaiting processing for my alien card....perfect.

I make a quick, oddly calm and lightheaded phone call to Sam who was an hour away but with a key component to my "stop-Erin-from-bleeding-to-death" plan – our Korean-speaking friend! So I wait for them on the sofa feeling all the effects you would expect to feel after a significant loss of blood. An hour and one horrified taxi driver later I walk into the emergency room to looks of horror on the faces of the staff. These were not in response to my bloody hand – but to the fact that I was foreign and that they would most likely have to be making an attempt to speak English at some point during the night. Oh my hand bleeds for you:(

So I get set up in a room and from behind the curtain I hear nervous laughter and the unfortunate and familiar chant of GAI! BAI! BO! – which translates into…wait for it…ROCK! PAPER! SCISSORS! Yep. They actually competed to see who would NOT have to help me. WTF!? Immediately afterwards a pitiful sigh escaped from one unlucky soul and as the curtain slowly opened a little Korean man with a look of absolute terror on his face emerged. His English was nil but he tried his best to get my history. It’s always never fun to have someone attempt to translate “last menstrual cycle” to you by the way. He left the room with an ambitious “I will go get my captain” Which was funny, as I was unaware that I was on a boat. Must have lost more blood than I thought.

So the head of plastic surgery comes down and after some initial astonishment as to how much anesthetic a western hand needs, he puts 14 neat little stitches into my hand. I watched the whole thing with delight and wide-eyed fascination. Perhaps taking notes for the inevitability of future flesh-sewing situations. This seemed odd to the nurses and doctor who apparently thought that all ladies are repulsed by the sight of flapping skin. Not me! I like to check out my handiwork!

As a humourous side note I should mention as well that there was a lot of nervous laughter amongst the masses because of the communication barrier. Sam comes rushing in to check it out because nervous laughter can sound a lot like cries of anguish. Bless her heart:) Her look of concern was contrasted by the fact that she was randomly holding 2 cartons of orange juice under each arm during this whole fiasco. This is not as important as it is amusing.

I get my arm wrapped from the tips of my fingers to my elbow – highly unnecessary but it’s hard to argue in another language. Finally my little nervous intern reappears. He’s standing in the door muttering to himself in deep concentration. Then, out of the blue he looks up and out pops “Do not worry the scarring will be minimal”. WTF? He’d been practicing that little number for the better part of an hour I'm sure. Now if only he could only get me off the boat. Oh, I love Korea!

As Sam and I are sorting out payment we notice a defibrillator sitting in the lobby. Nothing unusual about that right? Afterall, it is a hospital. However I notice that the life-saving machine’s buttons and instructions are all written in English and that a handy double-sided, laminated, and translated paper is hanging attached to it. Now I ask you. If you were lying there in need of a fast jolt of electricity to your heart would you want your doctor having to search for what buttons turn the damn thing on! I think not!

We leave the hospital and return home. I crawl into bed to what I hoped would be a good night’s sleep. Unfortunately my mattress was having issues and we hadn’t yet gotten it replaced. One half of my single-sized mattress was firm and nice, the other side had somehow internally collapsed making it impossible to sleep on. Unfortunately for me the nice side was closest to the wall. I came out of my room the next morning and greeted Sam with “I think I broke my nose.” Yes friends, in the middle of the night I innocently turned over and SMACKED my nose into the wall causing it to bleed and bruise. I’m not even safe while sleeping! So for 2 weeks I walked around looking like I had been in Korean gang fight what with the arm bandage and bruise on my face.

One night! That’s all! Just one night!

There should always be a moral to every story so I guess mine is....well, beware of me. I attract danger. And I haven't even told you about the time I crashed my scooter and nearly fell into the ocean. Two completely separate incidents.....*sigh*.