From the Global Post:

In the 19th century, mademoiselle was a noble and honorific title, associated with the marital status of the woman. That said, at the time women didn’t have much standing in society. The Napoleonic Code, initiated in 1804, ruled that women could never reach majority, or legal adulthood. They became permanent minors, first under the guardianship of their father, then under that of their husband.

When the Napoleonic code was dropped in 1938, women were to be called “madame” when they reached adulthood. But “mademoiselle” is still widely used to designate unmarried women in France, unlike in most other European countries where the practice has been abandoned as discriminatory, said Muret.

Muret added that in their professional lives, women who have a high level of responsibility are often called “madame” while subordinates are called “mademoiselle.”

“It is used in a condescending manner,” she said.

So when we visit France now we will all be “madames,” then, regardless of age, just as all men and boys are “monsieurs.” And here in the U.S., perhaps we can be “madames” too. It sounds a lot more elegant than “ma’am.”

Last year I was in Argentina for Christmas, which now, seems like a wonderful strategy for a celiac (travel!). Perhaps it was a “should,” but I wanted to tap back into our family traditions. I flew in from Oakland to New York (where I checked out the city’s wonderful pioneering gluten-free restaurants, and then took a bus to Rhode Island). Christmas cooking preparations started early this year with phone calls and emails traded with my parents. We knew this year would be different, though we followed the same patterns that we usually did for our meals.

On Christmas Eve we gather at my father’s and stepmother’s home for dinner. (Even my mother and her husband come.) My father and his wife usually serve a takeout lasagna from one of the Italian shops in Providence. My dad called me in early December to ask me how we should handle dinner. I had sent a link describing how to cook for a celiac a few days before. He was appropriately intimidated. Cooking for a celiac requires scrutinizing ingredients for hidden sources of gluten and notes about where the product was manufactured, a dedicated cutting board and at the least very, very well scrubbed pots and pans (to rid them of gluten). I don’t eat a friend or family member’s food unless I train them.

During the phone call, we decided I would bring my own gluten-free lasagna. That would be safer. Initially I felt jangly from the call, moody and unloved. I was angry my father did not want to learn how to cook gluten-free for me. I told my father, “This is going to be for life you know. You are never going to learn the basics of how to cook for me?” But then I realized my emotions were preventing me from seeing my father for who he is. My father is not a cook (he’s one of those vegetarians who subsists on packaged foods). He was showing me he loved me by reaching out to figure out what we would do. So I told him I appreciated that and thanked him. That gathering went fine. It’s the right approach for a celiac to simply bring her own food in tupperware, then slide it on a plate when it’s time to eat. I abstained from the salad, normal lasagna, bread, and desserts. My family was worried about me feeling deprived. I wasn’t worried about feeling deprived; I was much more worried about getting poisoned. Not eating a Mexican chocolate cookie is no big deal, but being exhausted for weeks is.

On Christmas Day my mother hosted a gathering for her extended family. She planned to cook some gluten-free dishes, including a roast and braised cabbage. The ambition got us into trouble. My mother is a fantastic cook and an RN; she has a lot of experience with avoiding contamination. At my request, she bought a separate dedicated cutting board, knife, two fry pans, and she washes her hands before cooking with certified gluten-free hand soap I brought home from Whole Foods (yes, even hand soap may contain gluten). But it’s impossible to not miss errant gluten; manufacturers put it in so many processed foods. For example, she used spray butter automatically before frying our hamburgers, and the spray butter bottle says “may contain wheat.” There’s no substitute for me observing and making sure that nothing contains gluten. She doesn’t like the word “supervise” so we can call it “consult.” Whatever you call it, it’s exhausting to watch someone cook and pounce on them any time there is a gluten alert.

We put in a lot of effort to cook gluten-free, but once the extended family arrived, I could see that there would still be possibility for cross-contamination. Two of my aunts were wonderful, and totally got what’s needed to prevent cross-contamination, but even with their help, the very structure of a potluck event doesn’t work for a celiac. Everyone nibbles before the dish is served, and people are also nibbling on crackers. A crumb is enough to activate the autoimmune response. Being a celiac means being constantly vigilant. I did not have the energy to police. My cousin wanted to make her pineapple bread stuffing in our kitchen. My uncle was cutting the roast and I hadn’t asked him to wash his hands–and he had been eating crackers. The mayhem. The chaos. I decided to eat only only the cabbage that had been covered the whole time and my gluten-free lasagna leftovers (which were tasty).

The best part of the Christmas meal today for me was explaining celiac to my cousin Kerry who has a thyme allergy. As we sat down to eat, Kerry asked me what happens when a celiac eats gluten. I explained that a tiny speck destroys the villi in our intestines, and then we can’t absorb food, and that leads to diverse symptoms, and increased risk for cancer and other autoimmune diseases. The damage can take three months to heal.

Her mother (my aunt) is getting married New Year’s Eve. Kerry asked me what I will do for food. I said, “Oh, I will bring my own, it’s easier.” She said, “That’s a fucking pain in the ass.” I smiled and laughed. I was so happy for her candor. Yes, it is a fucking pain in the ass to always bring your own food. Thank you for naming it! I feel so tight pretending all the time that being celiac is just fine. It is not just fine, for so many reasons, most of them having to do with the appalling lack of regulation on gluten disclosure in food and drugs in this country. It often feels like a part-time job, if not a half-time one, to stay safe (researching and making calls to manufacturers).

I often feel there is prohibition in this country against complaining. The happy, spiritual, socially acceptable cheery person puts the positive spin on something like celiac disease: such as, Oh, now I have such a healthy diet! I have learned all these wonderful recipes! I cook all my food at home! Oh yes, it has been a blessing to have this gene trigger in my body to cause it to attack itself at the slightest 1% of a bread crumb! And now, all my boyfriends get asked to brush their teeth before they kiss me! Their teeth are so white and clean!

Barbara Ehrenreich named “our love affair with positive thinking” in her 2009 book Bright-Sided: How Positive Thinking is Undermining America. She got her inspiration for the book when she was diagnosed with breast cancer and found a tyranny in the pink-ribbon culture to look for the silver lining of the disease. I feel the same way about celiac. I want to enjoy my life and don’t want to live in anger, but I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that living a strictly gluten-free lifestyle is a blessing. I would prefer to tell you that I want laws to force manufacturers to disclose whether food and drugs contain gluten, and I want a drug that will allow my body to consume that teeny bit of gluten without sending my intestines into self-destructive mode (such a drug is in development). Putting the positive spin on things can feel fake. Fake feels tight and pinched and like we don’t get to truly connect about what is real. Sometimes being celiac really sucks, and dealing with being celiac at the holidays is one of those times.

The gift of celiac at the holidays is that it has stripped away all the nostalgic associations. Now it’s crystal clear for me: I love my family and I don’t love these gatherings.

As I get older, I get more and more attuned to the knowledge that life is meant to be enjoyed. I am less likely to do things because of habit or tradition, and more likely to ask, Do I actually enjoy this? Do I want to celebrate Christmas the way I always have? The decision will be much clearer for me in the future to celebrate the holidays in a nontraditional way where food is not the centerpiece. Perhaps by making sure I am in another country in December. Perhaps smaller gatherings. Perhaps my mother and I will invite people over just for dessert or serve an exclusively gluten-free meal for a smaller crowd. No more going on automatic pilot, no more illusions that following the old template works. The future is up for definition.

Frank Moore

The event was called “Uncomfortable Zones of Fun.” This monthly event has been going on for three years and it’s hosted by the legendary performance artist Frank Moore and his entourage of supporters over at the Temescal Arts Center in Oakland. Moore is most famous for being one of the NEA-funded artists targeted by Jesse Helms in the early 90s for making “obscene” art. Jenny and I walked in ten minutes early and we were the only ones there. I whispered, “Do you think we will be the only ones?” It would be higher stakes to walk out if we were the whole audience.

Slowly seven more people trickled in to sit with us on the padded floor. They were a motley bunch: a young guy who had been traveling North America for a year, an articulate young research scientist, a mother-daughter pair, and a guy wearing a San Francisco Drug Users Union t-shirt. Frank Moore sat up front assisted by a woman who seemed to be a longtime collaborator and assistant. She interpreted and spoke for him. Frank was born with cerebral palsy and he can’t walk or talk. He communicates with the audience using a laser-pointer perched on a headband around his head, and a board of letters, numbers, and commonly-used words.

The performance consisted mainly of him asking questions of the audience, putting them on the spot and making them uncomfortable. The questions were not so crazy, “What attracted you to come here?” “What do you do for fun?” “What do you do?” Jenny had whispered to me, “He is well-known for asking people to take off their clothes or to undress others.” He didn’t ask me to do either. My answer would be a definite no, especially because they film the whole thing for a Berkeley public access show.

The theory: By making ourselves uncomfortable, we expand our range of what we are capable of doing. Making ourselves uncomfortable makes us more alive. I’m a big believer that life begins outside of our comfort zone. I also believe in the perfect stretch–a bit outside the comfort zone, but not so much that it blows you out. I was amazed by how “normal” many of the audience members were and how willing they were to play. Only one (the guy in the Drug Users Union t-shirt) was game to take off his clothes, but they were willing to create improv situations on the spot and to play percussion instruments. Upon request, Jenny and I each read a chapter each of two of his books. I read a chapter that exhorted performance artists to not censor themselves.

My favorite part was how Moore challenged me with his appearance. The man is 65 and had huge gob of saliva clumped together and cascading through his beard. He quivered as he tried to communicate, and I could see, when I got up to sit next to him to read from his book, that his laser pointing never really was stable enough to rest on letters. I noticed how grossed out I felt by his appearance, and how he challenged my beliefs that only “attractive” human beings should be on stage. I felt uncomfortable and ashamed to judge. His delight in life was palpable, despite age, despite handicaps. The man has a harem of lovers and he does nothing if it is not fun. He is prolifically creative. He described his writing as “improv with a computer.” (I want my writing to feel like improv too. Something unexpected, words that cannot be predicted and are not agonized over.) He questions whether his cerebal palsy is a “handicap.” I love people who only do fun. Every so often I meet one of these characters and they remind me of what life is about. I would love to do a book of profiles about people who only do fun.

Though most would see Moore as deeply disabled he has created his own unique, deeply creative and bizarre life on his own terms and created his own version of freedom. I am in the midst of struggling with my own health limitations since being diagnosed with celiac disease and taking on a strict gluten-free diet that makes social situations and travel complicated. How can I even complain for a second when I look at someone like Moore who goes for life with such insane zest even though he has never been able to speak normally. I worry when my pinkie hurts, Will I be able to type and write? This man has somehow managed to write and create art despite the fact that he cannot control his limbs. We are capable of anything when we are resourceful.

With Frank as my odd inspiration, I undertake a new challenge for myself: living out loud, writing at least one blog post a day that will be like “improv with my computer.” Let’s see how this goes.

Jenny and I did walk out early, after most of the rest of the audience. I went to the bathroom and was surprised to walk out and find two of his harem slithering naked on top of him in his wheelchair. They were engaged in non-orgasmic eroplay designed to melt boundaries between human beings.

We decided it was time to go get a drink. On the way out, we met a guy who was picking up a pizza next door, heard the music, and decided to check out what was going on. It was so much fun summing up the night for a curious passerby.

I asked her what she wanted in a lover, and what had worked in the past to find one? Dancing, she said. When she lived out west, she would go out dancing and amaze her friends with her ability to reliably pull in men. She had a sensual shrug in her shoulders. (She showed me over Skype and I could believe it.) Now she lives in New York and she had not been able to find the right kind of club to go dancing. The only places where people danced, she said, people were drunk and out to score or grope, and the dancing did not have the natural, uninebriated quality that she likes.

I asked where else does she feel turned-on in New York City? “Good question,” she said, and listed some possibilities, though none seemed to be the answer. We hit a blank place, familiar to single men and women. Where to find that person? I asked her to sit into herself and breathe deeply and then to think of the first words that came to mind. Anything.

She said, “Plants, stars, and pizza.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“This is your intuition!” I said. “Follow these words and see where they lead.”

Between coaching sessions my clients have homework. The most important part of coaching happens between sessions when they explore what we have talked about and then report back. Her homework would be an art-life project, following plants, stars, and pizza.

She texted me two hours later. “”Just met a guy in front of a pizza place!”
I texted back, “No way!”
“Yes, ma’am.”

I was so turned on by my client’s quick success, I tried this method myself. That afternoon I went to Trader Joe’s. When I got out of the car I took a breath, before opening to door to leave, and decided my word would be “pumpkin.” The word itself gave me a sly feeling as I shopped. I felt more friendly too.

As I finished up in the produce aisle, a man turned to me with his shopping list, and asked, “Squash?” He wanted to know if Trader Joe’s sold squash, and what on earth was it? I told him Trader Joe’s sells cubed butternut squash and pointed him to it. He asked, “What kind should I buy?” I said, “There’s only one choice, that’s the only kind they sell.” He said, “Thank you, and by the way, you are beautiful.”

I said goodbye. It was kind of intense. Hard to receive the compliment from a stranger, I suppose. What to do now? I went on to the grocery line where I spotted a box full of whole butternut and acorn squash. I left my cart to go tell him. I felt obligated, having given him misinformation! I showed him the squashes, and we chatted. This was the pickup conversation in the grocery store that I always imagined would happen as an adult. He seemed great with one exception: he had a strong alcohol breath at 2 pm on a Wednesday.

As I checked out, I felt energized. This squash guy is not for me. But how cool, I thought pumpkin and got squash! It is amazing that both I and my client could set an intention with a simple, intuitive word. What a mystery life can be when you tune in to your intuition. Life can take on a magical, unexplainable depth. Choose a word, believe in its power and see what happens.

The flip side of getting what you want, of course, is the ability to receive. My client told me, “The guy outside the pizza shop was all turned on about me. instead of going for it fully I hesitated. He asked me for my card. i gave it to him and ran.”

Next up, the challenges of receiving what you want.

The story of this session was published with the permission of my client. Her intuitive words were not changed. To learn more about coaching with me, click here.

1) Shame represents our fear of disconnection. We are ashamed by what we fear will separate us from others; we fear some part of us will be judged unworthy, I have always been fueled by shame in my writing–there is so much juice in our shame that helps us to connect with others when we express what we are ashamed about. My Quirkyalone book (and the quirkyalone movement) come to mind (expressing the shame of persistent singledom) and I have always found shame to be great creative fuel for connection with others. Expressing the charge we feel about our shame can be fuel for connecting in our relationships as well.

2) Vulnerability is the key to feeling more connection and joy. Being willing to be vulnerable and to invest in a relationship when you are not sure of the outcome is one of the characteristics of people who feel worthy of being loved–and feel more joy in their lives.

To warm up the group, I am giving a workshop called “Beyond the Steps: The Essence of Tango.” There are still spaces to come for the afternoon and evening. Here are the details for the full event.

And here are the details for my workshop:
Beyond the Steps: The Essence of Tango
Saturday, November 19, 3pm at the West Point Inn

This workshop/discussion is appropriate for all levels. I first discovered tango in South America and want to share the essence that I learned in Colombia and Argentina. If you are new to tango, this will be a chance to dive into what makes tango so meditative and healing. And if you are an experienced dancer, this will be a chance to explore and deepen what made you fall in love with the dance–and to experience tango in new ways.

We’ll begin at 3 sharp and go til 4:30.

After my workshop, there will be a beginner’s tango lesson at 6pm and a buffet dinner. The milonga, 9 p.m. to midnight, includes three sets of live acoustic tango music (Ville & Maho), interspersed with old tango music on 78 rpms on the old Victrola (if you have any 78s, bring them). Note: Electric or amplified music is strictly not allowed at the inn.

Please let me know if you will be able to join. . .

Come join me tonight at a benefit reading to support John Avalos, candidate for mayor in San Francisco. John is a fantastically real human being (outrageously real for a politician) and I met him 11 years ago when we were both on the communications team for another progressive mayoral candidate, Tom Ammiano. He supports my values and I support him! I’ll be reading on the question of “The San Francisco You Want to See.”

Here’s what I’m reading.

Chris Cook, the organizer tonight asked us to write on our visions for San Francisco. The question has special resonance for me now because I’m training to be a life coach. Being a life coach is all about asking people what they want. As a coach you ask clients, What do you want? many times because people are so conditioned to talk about what they don’t want. When people finally say what they want it’s a breakthrough because their minds are so accustomed to he articulation in the negative. In more woogie-boo language, the universe doesn’t respond, or manifest, things if you talk about what you don’t want. It’s logical. Ask and ye shall receive. The same goes in politics.

So the question for tonight is What San Francisco do you want to see? I lived in San Francisco for 13 years and I loved it. I formed friendships with many creative, free-thinking people who supported me to do outlandish things like start the quirkyalone movement and publish a magazine based on people’s to-do lists. San Francisco made me who I am in many ways–the kind of person who believes I can make a living creatively collaborating with others. And for my life to be one improvised, entrepreneurial adventure after the next.

After thirteen years, I moved to Oakland. I spent a year and a half traveling in South America, and I knew, when I came back to the Bay Area, that if I was going to live here, I wanted to live in a place where people look each other in the eye. Where there’s play in everyday life, and it’s not all mediated by Facebook and smartphones. The tech-drenched nature of San Francisco alienated me. Everyone on the bus stared into their phones and so did I. I live in Lake Merritt now where the races actually mix above a cafe where strangers talk to each other more than they type. So the first thing I want, for San Francisco, is to be more like my experience of Lake Merritt: that sense of people mixing in public space. For people to warmly greet each other and to cross boundaries of race and class.

I asked people what they want for San Francisco and most people get stumped. My friend Jenny told me she wants Halloween back in the Castro.

Here’s what I want for San Francisco. My list includes:

–Brilliant public schools in every neighborhood and the best-paid teachers in the country

–A bike-sharing system like they have in Paris and Lyon, France

–BART trains that run until 3 am

–The ability to take bikes on BART during rush hour

–WPA-style grants for artists, writers, magazine publishers, and poets. 10,000 units of affordable housing for artists, writers, teachers, social workers, others who contribute to the social good. Taller buildings in out of the way neighborhoods are OK by me.

–Public health clinics in every neighborhood with preventative care and screenings for celiac disease, diabetes, and other undiagnosed illnesses. I got diagnosed with celiac, an autoimmune condition and the only cure is a strict gluten-free diet. The awareness of celiac disease in the US is extremely low compared to Europe, and millions of Americans are suffering from chronic fatigue, pain, and increased mortality from cancer and other diseases because they don’t know they are celiac. One in 133 Americans are celiac–that’s three million people–but 90% are undiagnosed. I want San Francisco to take the lead by screening all children and adults for celiac through Healthy San Francisco and mandating screening at schools and in health plans.

–Elevators that work at San Francisco county buildings. My sister worked as a social worker at Child Protective Services for five years on the seventh floor. She and her coworkers regularly got trapped in the elevators and the county couldn’t bother to fix them. I want to see a CPS with elevators that work.

–And finally–for the whimsical–unicorns. I want San Francisco to stay on the cutting edge of whimsy.

As part of this new adventure, I am sponsoring a contest. Three lucky souls who want to grow and support others in their growth will get to play.

CONTEST RULES

What you win: A month of play and coaching. I will choose three people. You will win three individual coaching sessions with me, and we’ll meet as a group in person to co-create a game that helps each person get what he or she wants. This is a commitment of time and energy. You need to be ready to jumpstart your own growth and to supporting others along the way.

Who can enter: Anyone who wants to get unstuck and go for what he or she wants. That could be: a new business, writing, being bold in everyday life, getting over your tired stories, telling people what you want. What you want is as unique as you. If you are fuzzy about what you want, that’s OK. Coaching helps you get clear about what you want.

Who am I?: My name is Sasha Cagen. I’m a turn-on coach. It’s all about turning on to what makes you feel most alive, in work, life, and love. I’m highly intuitive and help people tune into what’s authentically true for them. I stand shoulder to shoulder with you as you step over the clutter that’s holding you back. My training is led by the talented coach trainers Jeff Jacobson and Mai Vu, who have both served on the faculty of CTI, the largest coach training org in the country.

In addition to being a coach, I’m a writer. I’m the author of Quirkyalone: A Manifesto for Uncompromising Romantics (HarperCollins) and To-Do List: From Buying Milk to Finding a Soul Mate, What Our Lists Reveal About Us (Simon & Schuster). I started the quirkyalone movement for people who prefer to be single rather than settle, published a nationally award-winning magazine To-Do List, co-founded a street fashion social network StyleMob.com and sold it to Glam Media, and traveled South America alone for sixteen months (read more at http:unplannedadventure.wordpress.com). I love travel, tango, and coaching others tune into what makes them feel most alive.

To learn more about me and my coaching, visit sashacagen.com.

How to enter:
1) Tell me what you want in your life and why you I should choose you.
2) Bonus points for being creative. Make a video and send me a link, send me a series of tweets (@sashacagen #iflifeisagame) or . . .
3) Send communication to sashacagen AT gmail.com.

Entries are due by end of day Monday, October 17.

I’ll announce the winners the following week and we’ll start coaching and creating our game thereafter.

My purge began almost two years ago when I decided to go on a walkabout (travel adventure with no plan) for four months in Brazil. Four months turned into over a year of traveling (and hanging out getting to know people and places) in Brazil, Colombia, and Argentina. That’s a longer story that I am writing in memoir form.

Before I leapt into travel mode I had been living in a San Francisco apartment for four years with two roommates. Four years was the longest I stayed in any one apartment since I left for college at 17. Four years equals a lot of stuff! Moving always caused me to sink into temporary holes of depression. The process always seemed more emotional than seemed warranted. I was forced to stare at things I acquired in the heat of the moment and then see them with fresh eyes. What is this junk and why do I have to pack it up with me? This cheap costume wig that is so mangled I can’t even comb it, this unflattering schwag t-shirt? I could think of one thing with value: a juicer that could easily juice a beet. If my stuff was a reflection of life, my life seemed to be filled with junk.

Thus began the purge that continues to this day.

I began in Brazil with a bloated bag of dresses and skirts and quickly realized the weight was too much. I spent $80 to send clothes back. (One advice for anyone embarking on long-term travel is to not worry about clothing. Shoes are a different story, but you will get the appropriate clothing anywhere you go and understand better what you actually need.) (I am going to put together an e-book of advice for long-term travelers.)

Now that I am back in the States–and considering future adventures abroad–I want to remain buoyant and light. I think wistfully back to the days when there was so little laundry to do. I bundled up the bag more frequently but it wasn’t so laborious and heavy.

My stuff was stored in a storage unit for over a year. Like most people, I had no desire to deal with it. If I had survived without those boxes for 16 months, what did I need them for? But I was paying a ghastly monthly fee. I didn’t want to be one of those Americans who pays to store junk in storage for the rest of my life. The storage industry now exceeds the revenues of Hollywood.

Since those cardboard boxes came back into my life, I have been purging. It is funny how I still feel a sense of loss when I pick up the pair of tango heels that are unstable–no matter how many times I brought them to a cobbler–and then put them on a bag on the street. It’s a loss, and then a joy–I’m free of that problem now! I get a buzz out of giving away CDs, books, and dishes. I work on wearing every piece of clothing in my wardrobe, and if I don’t wear it within three months, it goes out on the street to someone who will love it more. I hope these objects will be received with joy by someone else.

Even better, ever since I came back from my travels, shopping is no longer therapy. I no longer acquire clothes as a hobby. That’s pretty amazing since I spent 30% of my free time in junior high school and high school in malls! I take this as a sign that I have more fulfillment in my life–I don’t need to seek fulfillment in shopping because there are other things I want to spend money on, like travel and tango. Over the last six months, I spent $100 on new clothes for practicing or dancing tango.

Here’s a fascinating statistic that makes this accomplishment feel bigger: “By 2005, according to the Boston College sociologist Juliet B. Schor, the average [American] consumer purchased one new piece of clothing every five and a half days.”

Steadily getting rid of possessions brings me a lightness and joy that is hard to name. It is easier to create order when I am surrounded by fewer objects to organize. A simple home reflects a calm mind.

My desire for simplicity doesn’t stop with possessions. I also want less in my information diet. I want to be informed. I do not want the debt ceiling limit to result in seniors not being able to get health care, for example. But there are limits to how much information I can take in. I was a perpetual NPR listener in my previous life, and now I am more likely to intersperse silence and college radio (music). The news can be a barrage and my brain can’t hold on to all the threads. The voices become noise after a while and noise is clutter.

I lived without an iPhone while I was in South America and it was a joy to be free of the distraction.

My goal is to be simple in all ways. How can we be sustainably simple in this “crazy” world in the United States? I am always struck how people call their days “crazy” in the U.S., and I don’t want “crazy” days whether I am living here or abroad. I want simple, love-fueled days. I want to keep the light, well-edited minimalism of travel with me now always.

My Portuguese language teachers, me, and my fellow student, enjoying our very own SoSingular

My friend Laura informed me that South Korea has a National Singles Day too on June 14. Single people get together on “Black Day” to eat noodles with black bean sauce.