It seemed like a trip to Hell.

I am not referring to Hell, Norway. Nor am I referring to Boring, Oregon, although I do love the name, I am talking instead about my first trip to South Korea to teach Korean kids and adults in Busan.

We landed in Seoul and I got off the plane with my boyfriend. The airport (which has since been replaced with a great airport) was full of Koreans (go figure) and was needing of repair. We entered the Immigration line, a little bit tired, a little bit excited, and a lot nervous.

The man behind the counter sent us to another room where ten Korean middle-aged were smoking cigarettes at their desks. They looked at us, but did not smile.

I thrust my passport and papers to one man behind the counter.

"You," he said, "You go out." 

He then took my then-boyfriend's passport from him and repeated the phrase in exactly the same manner, using exactly the same English grammar.

"You," he said, "You go out."

I got confused. Being somewhat of a virgin traveler, I had no idea what he was talking about.

"Go outside?" I thought we had a connecting flight. Why on earth would I go outside?  "Go to Pusan? Go home?"

"You," he said, indicating both of us this time, "you go out."

I looked around me for some help. The nine other middle-aged men were still smoking their cigarettes, looking at their desks and pretending that we, the two Americans in the room, were not there.

This continued in the same vein for about fifteen more minutes. Since this was my first visit to Korea, my Korean was more than limited. I was a cultural illiterate, as well, and only knew that for some reason, sometimes, Koreans bowed.

I felt like an idiot.

Finally, the man expanded his also-limited vocabulary by a few words. "You go out Korea, get stamp, come back."

A-ha. We didn't have the right visa to teach apparently. I was pissed off. Not at the Immigration Official, but at the recruiter from the 'burbs of Seattle who had somehow failed to give us all the information we needed. Be-atch.

He placed us in the back of a line and our passports were stamped for 15 days. We missed our connecting flight. Luckily, except for a little mix-up about whether we should be at counter 12 or 20, which many Koreans seem to confuse, we forged on.

We arrived in Pusan two hours late. We picked up our luggage and went out to meet our future employers. We expected a sign, possibly balloons, something to welcome us from our long journey, but there was nothing.  An hour later, we found a sign with our future school's name on it. The man carrying the sign, named Mr. Kim, was friendly and spoke fluent English. He told us that he was not our employer, but that he had recommended his recruiter to the employer.

The ride was interesting. In a part of the city that I later classified as totally industrial, I saw not the wasteland it actually was, but streets filled with exotic markets, strange signs, and lots of people. I told Mr. Kim that I liked his city and he just laughed and sounded surprised.

There was no one on floor five when we arrived at our destination. My boyfriend and I lugged our luggage (guess that's why they call it luggage) up the five flights of stairs without help from Mr. Kim, and entered into an empty room with pale green walls kind of like the kind you see in hospitals and sat at a table in the middle of the room. About ten minutes later, an elderly man who looked a little creepy came wandering into the room.

"Hello, we're the new teachers?" I usually spoke in question marks whenever I found myself in strange situations.

The man grunted and left.

Great, this was getting off to a spectacular start. I started plotting to plan my escape. Meanwhile, my stomach was growling and more than a little upset.

I tried the bathroom door, opened it and quickly closed it. The toilet was on the floor. Was I expected to pee in a urinal? I made my boyfriend take a look. Travel virgins, we had just come face to face with our very first squatter toilet. Joy to the world.

I started to cry from frustration. My face turned red and I quite possibly snapped at my boyfriend while we continued to wait, staring at the ugly walls and hoping someone would come and help us out. So much for the welcome party.

After about 45 minutes, a swaggering, overweight, puffy-faced, middle-aged Korean man came up the stairs. He introduced himself as our new director.

"Hello," he said in heavily-accented English, "I am Mr. Kim." (Soon after I learned that about 40% of the Korean population is named Kim.)

"I will put you in a motel until your classroom is ready."

WTF? To put it mildly, I was in deep shock and more than a little angry at the pompous ass standing in front of me.

"Where were you? Why were we sitting here so long? Where's our apartment that the recruiter promised us?"

He repeated himself. "I have a nice motel down the street. You will be living in a classroom after then."

That was it, I was on the next flight home. Only, I had exactly $300 in my bank account, and no clue how to get out of the country.

And this, my friend, is how I started my first year in South Korea.