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Friday August 1st, 2008, I found myself sitting in Coffee A Go Go, a cosy and amiable, yet not so flamboyant, Davie Street café.  I sat drenched from Vancouver’s dreary, yet refreshing rain while gazing out through the window.  The server, a kind looking man with poor eyesight—I know this because he’d asked me to read my credit card number to him—would have probably been able to see the same thing I saw.  While enjoying my Davie Special; a cream cheese, cranberry, and turkey sandwich, along with a fresh salad and a mocha, I—like he’d probably be able to see—saw Vancouver wrapped in a comfortable grey blanket.  The blanket covered the clouds, buildings, clothes, and sidewalks.  August 1st, 2008—the ephemeral peak of summer—and everything was grey.

My emotions were, however, immune to the downward pull of the overbearing grey.  My eyes saw, yet my feeling blind.  My optimism of Korea shone through the grey like a crepuscular ray.

Behind the grey, I could see that even Vancouver was being destroyed to go through recreation.  Construction was everywhere, and to this day on every block, ever second building or street, there are families of cranes tearing down and pulling up the cement, plaster, and glass skin to add to the skeleton behemoths that will soon be the multitudes of buildings for the Olympics.  These cranes—these surgeons—are giving Vancouver a facelift.  I am going through the same ordeal; however, I hope my destruction and rebirth is much deeper.  More devastating.  More altering.  I do have an Olympian goal in mind; however, my blueprints are from Mt. Olympus itself and they will be followed even if they bring me—a coin over each eye—across the River Styx.

During the last three months trudging through three English courses while trying to keep enough energy to be a dancing monkey for my students, I’ve neglected to get a haircut or answer my emails until very recently because at the same time I’ve been jumping through flaming hoops to get across the invisible, yet very tangible boundaries between Vancouver and Asia.

My passport was ten years expired.  And getting a new one was step one.  Instead of digging into the wisdom of the Internet, I decided to be lazy and go to a small passport photographer in Harbour Centre that I had remembered seeing from before my adventure into Cuba.  I went into the photograph-cluttered shop only to be ignored at first until a startled elderly Chinese woman peered up from behind the counter.
“No English, no English, no English,” she said, “later come.  Later thirty minutes.  Son come.  Thirty minutes.  Yes, thirty minutes. Son come.  Son come.”  I waited out in the food court watching the store for the son to come while reading the wife of Bath’s own liminal pilgrimage.  I read and waited for an hour.  No son came.

The following weekend I decided to give them a second chance.  Luckily I got my photo taken and later that afternoon, I filled out the rest of my passport application before I sent it off.  Impatiently, I waited.  I couldn’t get my visa and didn’t want to risk buying my airplane ticket before I got my passport.  Stupidly I sent my original BCID leaving my without government photo ID, the kind of ID needed for restaurants and liquor stores.

After about a month of stressed out waiting with my departure date looming, and not knowing how long it usually takes to get a visa, I got my mail from the passport office.  Finally.  I ripped it open, and emptied everything onto my desk—including the rejection letter.  Apparently I hadn’t noticed that I was supposed to write the name of the photographer, the address, and the date of which the photo was taken.  All returned for such a small detail.  Such a stupidly small detail.  The passport process has changed a lot since I applied for my last one to Cuba.  I hastily—two days later—wrote down the information and sent it off again.

I took the risk of buying my flight ticket before my passport came because I’d been told that fewer and fewer tickets were available due to peak season.  It seems I paid higher for my panic, and instead of going straight to Korea, I’ll go through Japan.  After about three weeks from sending my passport application, I received my Soon Chun Hyang University admission letter of which was also delayed followed one week later by my nice new shiny passport.  The next day I took my passport and admission letter to the Korean embassy.

My lovely friend Mi Ok came with me.  She was kind enough to translate between myself and the bitterly unsmiling 아줌마, or ‘ajumma’; Korean for middle-aged married woman.  My previous worries were for nought as one week later I received my visa.

Mi Ok has been my foil, or I hers in her own narrative.  She’s also in a liminal state here in Vancouver.  So many choices are open to her, and she’s not sure of which to endeavour.  She’s been a great friend who has helped me with everything, and she’ll be one of the people I’ll miss most when I’m abroad.  People of her generosity are rare.  When I look at her, I feel a mirror of liminality.  It feels as if we are in much of the same situations, yet in many ways reversed.  Her deliquescent life decisions are paralysing her while my Vancouver life is dissipating deliquescently.

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