I sit here on my sofa at home, still jetlagged from my Korea trip, about to leave in 24 hours for Europe. Ironically the 10pm-5am recording sessions during my last four days in Korea helped to prepare me for European time. So perhaps in a couple of days I won’t be suffering during afternoons and will be back on schedule.

MIK spent the last few days recording Schumann’s piano quartet and quintet. Recording is hard; recording overnight is harder yet; and recording overnight on three hours’ sleep each night (yes, jetlag) borders on the absurd. Perhaps that drunken sleepless state took the edge off the stress of the process. That microphone normally stares at me like an evil eye dangling in mid-air, an eye that selectively hears my worst qualities and never forgets them – unless you explode it into pieces like the Terminator. During these sessions it seemed as if a friendlier, more benevolent face hung there smiling down at us. It also helped that some very loyal friends were there in the hall with us during the recordings to get us coffee, kimbap, and look inspiringly pretty during the romantic slow movement. The post-recording pre-dawn soju celebration capped the recording and the trip before I headed straight for the airport.

JFK is always a shock when arriving from Korea. Everything begins peacefully after leaving the plane and the army of Korean Airlines stewardesses greeting me off. The ground feels familiar. And as much as I love the Korean language, I look forward to being able to communicate myself in more than half-sentences. But then I turn the corner to take that last short escalator down to the immigration checkpoint - and the noise blasts me in the face. It is an Ives-ian palette of the murmur of an impatient crowd waiting in long lines with the voices of immigration officers trumpeting above the din, ordering and jostling people every which way even if we are in the right line. Instead of the bookishly dressed woman who stamped my passport upon entering Korea, I am greeted here by a barrel-chested ex-wrestler with pistol holstered in plain sight. At baggage claim Ives adds more layers to the texture, the cranking sound of the old carousel struggling to make its rounds, and the computerized voice from above cheerfully welcoming us to the U.S. with the prospect of being thrown into jail for 20 years if we are spotted opening our cell phones. Exiting the building is a mere color change, not a relief; now there are cab horns blaring, rogue taxi drivers yelling and trying to grab my bags, the wind swooping down through the pick-up area tunnel. Finally, a moment of silence upon entering the cab while the driver puts my suitcase in the trunk. And then the coda: cab driver enters the car and shouts animatedly into his cell phone in Arabic. I’m home.