Suffice to say, most Korean food is usually at least a bit salty and a lot spicy. Picture unidentified raw meat grilled in it's own juices and smothered in red-pepper paste. Now add a side of white rice and kimchi (fermented cabbage). Getting thirsty yet?

With all that in mind, I can't understand the way Koreans consume water. There is rarely if ever water initially provided at a meal. In many Korean restaurants, if you want it you've got to go fill your own cup from a water cooler. And the cups themselves are only good for a gulp and a half. Korean people rarely if ever actually drink water during the meal. They'll drink beer and soju (a somewhat syrupy spirit) but not even bring a water glass to the table.

At the end of the meal they'll toss back one glass of water almost like it's a shot.

In my school's special teacher lunch room, I am the only person ever drinking water during my meal. One English teacher even warned me once that older Korean people might be offended if they saw me drinking water at the table.

What gives? This can't be healthy, can it?

A recurrent theme in my Korean experience is the trouble folks seem to have with something outside the norm. This can be difficult to spot at first because it's rarely malicious. It most often manifests in amazement or humor. After nearly 8 months here Koreans still marvel that I can use chopsticks with any proficiency. I'm met with playful laughter anytime I utter a syllable of Korean.

But one bright red example yesterday might throw this phenomenon into the daylight for those of you who've never visited an Asian culture before.

It's gotten warm here; highs are in the 80s F some days including this past weekend. So Sunday morning I went to the beach for the first time this year, where I managed to get a rather crimson suntan.

On Monday, four different Koreans commented on my brighter than usual pigment. They were each embarrassed for me; not because I stood out like a cherry tomato in a field of corn, but because I'd gone to the beach at all.

"Nobody goes to the beach in May!" one teacher said to me. A friend at the gym just kept laughing, again not at my appearance, but because I'd visited a place strictly reserved for summer in his mind. "People go to the beach in July," he explained matter-of-factly.

I tried to arguing, saying that it was plenty warm and sunny for a beach outing, even if the water was frigid. "Why shouldn't I go to the beach if the weather is nice?" I asked.

More than one of my interrogators rebutted, "Were there many people there?"

"No, not really," I answered truthfully. There had been a few dozen people engaging in various beach activities.

But my Korean friends took this as proof positive that I'd managed some terrible social faux pas. In their minds, the sparse beach population was clear evidence that going there during the month of May, no matter the weather, was a radical act, best left to the homeless and senile.

It's kind of sweet in some ways. They wanted to protect me from what they see as me making a fool of myself. But I want a tan, and frankly, I'm happy to have the beach to myself.