Every spring a weather phenomenon hits southeast Asia. Sand from the expanding Gobi desert mixes with industrial pollution, brewing a fuzzy-minded concoction the locals call yellow dust. It blows out of China and into neighboring countries.

It’s early in the season. But I think as a new foreigner living abroad in Korea, just a sprinkle has affected me. Sinus pressure. Sore throat. Runny nose. It’s like I’ve been inhaling dirty cotton balls.

One of my Korean co-teachers went to the hospital the other day because her sinus cavities had swollen, making her cheeks all puffy and red. I’ve been amazed at how often Koreans go to the hospital. In America, this is unheard of. We only go to the hospital to have a baby or if we’re dying. Our receptionist, Sarah, said this: "It’s pretty cheap for easy things, 2,000 to 3,000 won." That’s about $3.50.

I could go to a hospital, I guess — my job does provide health insurance. But there’s that whole language barrier. I’d rather get high off Tylenol cold medicine than have to go through the frustration of trying to make myself understood.

I’ve enjoyed living overseas, out of America and out of America’s stupid, self-inflicted recession. But my body’s reaction to the pollution makes me yearn for home. By most accounts, my air back home was never this messed up. Sure, Vegas looked bad from afar, but it didn’t make me feel this bad.

Scary thought. Someday we’ll never be able to escape it. Abuses against the Earth will eventually catch up with us. It just won’t be South Korea.

For those of you who have never lived in a city clogged by industrial pollution, let me offer this: it’s enough to want to give up your car and all those products (what are they — does anybody know?) made in those factories that have no environmental controls.

Becky Ann Bosshart