My first summer in Korea, I thought I was going to die. The heat and the humidity were unbearable. I’d naively assumed that living near the Han River in southeastern Seoul might offer some cooling nighttime breeze. It didn’t. Not even a whisper. Fortunately, I had a fan — an old, rattling workhorse that labored through the night, valiantly pushing hot air from one side of my room to the other. It didn’t cool me, but it gave the illusion of doing something, which was better than nothing. The next morning, bleary-eyed after another sleepless night, I trudged off to school. At least the classrooms were air-conditioned, which felt like a miracle. “It was so hot last night, I slept with the fan on all night,” I said casually while taking attendance. A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room. I looked up. The entire class was frozen in horror, eyes wide, mouths agape, as if I had just confessed to something unspeakable. “What’s wrong?” I asked. A long pause. Then one brave student slowly raised her hand. “Yes?” “Teacher,” she said carefully, “you cannot sleep with