Whassat? Whasher A-Whay!

What's it been, like a month?  Psh, whatever.  Am I here to tell you about my Halloween excursion to Busan (wherein a friend and I went as Hall and Oates)? No.  Am I here to tell you about the Busan Fireworks Festival (still the greatest fireworks show I've ever seen)?  Nah.  What about my trip to Gyeongju, wherein I experienced a series of interesting events concerning Korean culture (like a Korean band full of traditional instruments covering Beatles songs)? Not even close.

I'm back in action to tell you that Mr. Lee struck again.  I suppose this story requires some background.  Here, listen to this while you read:



It'll make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside whilst I weave a tale.  So for the entire time I"ve been here, my washer has been broken.  I've mentioned it on this blog before.  At first, I thought I was doing something wrong.  Barely able to read Korean, I thought there must be some magic button I should push to fix everything that was going wrong whenever I did laundry.  I eventually had my co-teacher come to my apartment and explain to me how to do laundry like a special needs third grader.  I thought the problem was fixed.  That was certainly not the case.  It wouldn't spin, instead opting to make a loud grunting sound as though to say, "Hey, I'm tryin' but I just ate sixteen chalupas from Taco Bell and I ain't movin' cause I can't get up from my Lazy Boy.  Plus the game's on, how you gonna do that to a brotha?"  I knew it was time to say something.

Unfortunately for me, I mentioned my problem after the 30 day grace period stipulated on my contract.  After day 30 of living in my domicile, whatever went wrong with furniture, appliances, or infrastructure was my problem.  This was reinforced by my co-teacher who was apologetic, but basically restated the contract and said I'd have to fix my washing machine if I wanted it to work.  Well, I wasn't going to spend money on a washing machine in some weird Asian country, so for the next year and eight months I washed my clothes in a broken machine, pretending it got them clean.

The actual results varied.  All my white shirts have faded to some dull gray, sometimes the smells of my clothes was a little funny (works great when talking to women), sometimes mystery stains that weren't present when I put the article into the washing machine appeared, and it couldn't even entertain the thought of washing bedsheets.  I couldn't wait to go on vacation so that I could use a real washing machine and a dryer so my clothes would at least be clean twice a year. 

"You're an idiot, Steve," you might say (and rightfully so), "why not just go to a laundromat or dry cleaner to take care of your dirty work?"  Good question, and I like your use of puns.  Well, laundromats don't exist here as far as I know, and I...have this strange phobia of a certain style of Korean shops.  The dry cleaner by my apartment was such a shop.  You step into someone's living quarters that doubles as their shop; a one or two room shack, if you will.  You'll interrupt them eating, sleeping, watching TV, and the living conditions leave something to be desired and you're surprised that something this third world still exists in Korea and you feel guilty about simply being American.  So, besides partially doubting the ability of said dry cleaner to make my clothes clean in questionable conditions, I developed an irrational fear of the establishment itself. 

Is the song over yet?  If it is, play this one, damn you.  It's magical and I'm a moodsmith. 



Ahem, fast forward to about two weeks ago.  I casually mention to my co-teacher how my washing machine is broken in the context of a conversation (not expecting anything to come of it, more explaining why I smell like rotten vegetables every day instead of a snuggle bear).  We go through the whole shabang, "Why didn't you say something about it before?" "I did about a year and a half ago." Blah blah blah. 

This time, the reception was different.  They asked the vice principal and he said the school would pay to get it fixed.  I guess holding a bit of tenure carries some weight (oohhhhh, I get the song choice now...but what's that first one about?).  I was walking on sunshine.  The next step was to call the Daewoo Service Center and get someone to take a look see at me washer.  That involved me pulling some Catherine Zeta-Jones stunts from the movie Entrapment (co-starring Sean Connery) and getting in behind my washing machine to read the faded number off the back panel.  Flash fast forward to Monday (yesterday) when Daewoo Dude finally shows up to my apartment wherein I am patiently waiting with my coteacher.  He takes one look at my machine and says what I can only assume is the equivalent of, "Sumbitch got a brokin gear.  Gon' costya hundert n' thirty, easy."  (Why do all repairmen have this accent?  God only knows...) "Futhamore," he adds, "Ya owe me fifteen bucks fer the consultation visit."  Guess what we paid? 

ZERO.  BAM! Enter Mr. Lee who doesn't like service technicians getting all up in his property without his prior knowledge/consent (for those of you absent from previous adventures of the World Class Flaneur, Mr. Lee is my landlord.  Very kind, Christian man who possesses no English and equally as much tact).  He says a bunch of stuff, Daewoo Dude says a bunch of stuff, my coteacher says a bunch of stuff and it goes on like this for five minutes.  Then everyone leaves, myself last.

"What happened?" I ask, innocently.  "Your landlord will change your washer."  "Mr. Lee strikes again," I whisper....

Microscopic fast forward to when I get home at 4:45.  Things are slightly out of place and I guessed Mr. Lee had been doing some work in there.  I walk to the bathroom and, lo and behold, not only do I have a washer that is clearly an upgrade, Mr. Lee also cleaned my entire bathroom.  Now, I admit, it was getting a little nasty in there.  Mold had been creeping up and spiders had made my bathroom their nesting den of Satan.  Even still, cleaning my entire bathroom was well above and beyond a landlord's call of duty.  Especially since I was totallyplanningondoingit before I moved out. 

The...I'm going to go with...funniest part?  He used my painting rag to clean it.  My painting rag with all the dried paint on it (and some wet paint) that was being used for my painting.  Now it's all wet...

But, I certainly can't complain and completely should thank him and take him out to dinner or something.  No telling how many questionable hairs he found in there.