Moments of panic:

-standing in the crowded subway wearing a backpack with my most precious possessions in it (laptop, passport, money), a man grabs my bag firmly and lifts its weight off my back. I try to turn around but am tangled in the straps, and people are pressing in from all sides. Realization: no, he's not trying to rob me. When there's no place to sit down, it's polite for someone to help you with a big bag.

-any time I need to communicate in Korean panics me. Mostly because the store clerks and waitresses try so hard to communicate, but my ignorance prevails.

-people wearing medical masks in the streets. Flashbacks of SARS. But they seem to mostly be older people, so I'm guessing it's to ward off pollution, if not disease. (Reading McCarthy's The Road isn't easing my mind, either!)

-along those lines, the people hacking and horking in the gutters. Just because I think if I got sick right now I might have to cry!

Luckily, I'm in good health! The Friday morning of Training Week, I was acting out my final classroom simulations in Seoul and finally, signing a contract. I feel like I've signed about ten of those. This one, apparently, is for real. It says I'll start Monday. My roommate said they'd never throw me in like that, though. Who knows. I'm given a sheet with simple instructions: go back to the hotel. At 7p.m, a man will come and pick you up in a van and take you and your bags to the bus terminal.

What bus terminal? Aren't I going by train? Do I have to pay for it? Will this man speak English? Am I going to a hotel in Daejeon? That is where I'm going, right? I don't start work Monday, do I? When do I find an apartment? Who will help me? When can I get a phone? Where do I find my boss? How do I get to work? How will they contact me at all?

Stop asking questions, crazy Canadian girl. The Company will take care of you.

Oooooookay. *moment of panic* - where is my original University degree I sent you, way back when I applied for this visa? ……. No answer. It's not worth the panic anymore. I decide to stop resisting and accept that the Company will take care of me.

The shuttle back to the hotel won't leave to get me there in time. I decide to take a city bus, which is a mistake. Rush hour in Seoul is no joke. The bus doesn't move much in the congested streets, and makes it only halfway through its route in an hour. I get back to the hotel around 7:25, and the man with the van is waiting for me. No, he does not speak English. But he seems to want to throw my bags in his van and have me climb in. He doesn't seem to want to wait for me to find my only winter coat and scarf, back in my room. No big loss, I think. It's only February in the Northern Hemisphere. I'm Canadian, I can hack it.

We drive through the traffic again. He watches melodramatic Korean soaps on his dashboard television, like most cab drivers do. We finally park at the bus terminal, I scuttle after him with smaller bags flung over my shoulders, apologizing about the two massive, heavy ones he's dragging. The terminal's huge, with gates like an airport. My driver goes to a counter, then gestures me over; has me open my wallet and fishes out fare himself. The Company is taking care of me. My mantra.

He brings my bags to a gate, hands me my ticket, points to the departure time. Points to the clock on the wall. Points to the gate doors and the buses outside. Leaves.

Sooooooo…. that's the extent of what I know. I shuffle through papers, remembering Daejeon has at least three bus terminal stops. Which one do I get down at? Zen. Try not to worry. Put some Jack Johnson on your iPod and chill out, Kate.

I get on the bus, I fall asleep; we arrive at a stop at 10:45p.m. and everyone seems to get off. I decide to gather my things, too, to see if I'm in the right place. Before I get a foot on the ground, two Korean men pull me out of the bus by my arm. "Caterine?" Sure. I'm not going to get any non-Anglophone to try to say Kathleen. "Company?" Sure. This must be the Company's doing. They find my bags, they put me into another van with my stuff and we navigate the neon streets of Daejeon.

"Where are you from?", the question most Koreans tend to ask Anglophones, or maybe just white people in general. "Canada." Oh. They talk on in Korean. I finally lean in from the back seat:

"Hotel?"

"No!" *laughs* "Meeting. Brian."

Great. A meeting with my new co-workers. At 11p.m. I'm still in my business attire from my morning test.

We drive into underground parking. My bags are ejected from the van, brought to an elevator; I scuttle after them. The three of us ride up. The driver on a phone. 12th floor. The doors slide open; we're in an apartment building hallway. We stop at a door. The driver slides a cover from above the handle, revealing a keypad. He punches a code, looks at me to see if it registered, and the door makes a friendly mechanical bell sound; locks slide open. A little hallway. My studio apartment.

I don't know how any of this happened. I was told I would have to find my own place. But here I am, in my living room, with the two Korean men showing me how to work the heat and A/C. Where the lights are. I check the bathroom, the kitchenette, climb the stairs to my loft, find a queen-sized mattress and bedding next to rows of closets. A washer/dryer, like in the hotel. A full-sized fridge and freezer. It looks good. Not that I have much choice. I don't know what the rent is. I haven't signed a lease. I don't know who these people are. And they know my door code. But I trust the company. Somewhat.

We leave my bags, and I go downstairs. I guy about my age is there, Brian. The Korean driver laughs and hugs him. He's my Head Instructor. Brian finds Ian, the HI for the other school in Daejeon. I learn there are two schools the Company owns in Daejeon. I'm at the small one. The HIs walk me round the block. High-rises lit up in the night, big stores, where I can buy groceries, where I can buy appliances. Good. They live in my building; most of the instructors do. Go home, change, come to a party at Brian's. Beer pong.

Phew. I go to the party; a little dog greets me and runs around wildly, humps my leg. People laugh. I meet about fifty people, crammed into Brian's apartment, which is bigger than mine but the same style. I'm offered wine and beer. Americans, Canadians. Three people went to the U of G. The odd South African, Australian, Irishman. Asian expats, returned to their abstract homeland, not speaking a word of their native dialects anymore. I'm exhausted. I won't remember a single name. I meet a sweet Canadian couple I was told to track down by a friend at Training. They give me their room number. I won't remember a single room number. I excuse myself after a drink and find my apartment again, make my bed, explode the contents of my suitcases onto the heated cream granite floors. My pyjamas are warm. I crawl into bed. It's comfy.

I'm here. My new home. All in a day. I have the weekend to settle in. Monday, Brian will take me to work and I'll shadow a bit, train for the classes I'm actually teaching. Tuesday. I'll be fine.

It'll be good. Trust the Company.