Cable Cars and Kickin' It Korean-Style

While standing at the cable car platform, waiting for my panoramic lift over the cityscape of Busan, I caught the attention of a wrinkly old man donning a baseball cap and toothy grin. I didn't know what to make of him, exactly -- he was smiling and rattling off one word after another of I didn't know what, pointing at my camera, gesturing for me to take a photo of this, or stand there and snap a picture of that. In my ignorance, I assumed he worked for the cable car company, and I suppose I went along with his charades more or less to humor him.

It didn't take long, however, for a middle-aged couple standing nearby to start chuckling at the scene. And a tall, quite attractive Korean guy who looked to be around my age, exchanged jovial words with the couple as well. For the life of me, I couldn't make out a word of the exchanges, but it seemed like everyone was amused and I figured I could handle being part of the spectacle until the cable car brought us all to the mountain top, where I would no doubt part ways and get back to doing my own thing again (I've found that, in general, Koreans really don't mix much with foreigners. They'll smile at you, and reply back if you offer a gretting, but any curiosity they might have about a solo traveler or foreigner living abroad is lost under the front of formality that the majority of Koreans seem to display).

The slow, smooth ride to the top of the mountain was fantastic. While the skies were more gray than blue, at least the city itself was visible as we rose above the trees, hoisted upward with steel cables. I managed to get several nice shots from my window perch at the front of the cable car before we coasted to a stop and exited the car. I was a bit confused when the wrinkly old guy with the cap started walking up the hill towards the mountains (as I had thought he was an employee), and even a bit disgruntled when he gestured that I join him for something to drink. No, that wasn't quite the afternoon I had in mind, coupling up with someone twice my age who didn't speak a lick of English and would no doubt, in 10 seconds flat, start making googly eyes at me.

But suddenly I realized that it was not him alone but the entire party of four -- the old man, the middle-aged couple, and the good-looking tall guy -- that I'd be joining. And even though I knew any communication among us would at best be a shot in the dark, I found myself sitting around a large wooden table with my new "friends" (I'm going to name them Pops, Mark & Lisa, and Jim, just because that's easier), feeling somewhat like a novelty and yet also feeling their genuineness in befriending me. Minutes later, a large bowl of something cool and milky was brought to the table and Pops began ladling it into mugs that were then dispersed among us.

I followed their lead as my new friends chinked their cups and took a swig. The bite of liquor cut through the slightly sweet flavor of the beverage that had just crossed my lips, and I felt as if I, the foreigner, had just become privy to some kind of secret Korean drinking tradition. Mark leafed through my guidebook, stopping on a page that was meant to serve as a language liaison for decoding Korean menus. He pointed at a string of hangul characters and then looked at me, and I understood that what we had just sipped was dongdongju, a kind of liquor mixed with corn. That explained the sweetness.

We spent the next hour wandering up and down mountain trails together, stopping at another little mountain shack for a tasty pajeon (Korean pancake) a plateful of acorn jelly, and some incredibly spicy kimchi. Of course, they insisted on doling out another few rounds of dongdongju to wash it all down. Partly because I was curious, partly because I didn't want to offend my hosts, and partly because I was really kind of caught up in the whole idea of being part of this very Korean experience, I went right ahead and indulged.

By the time we were heading down the mountain in the cable car, the sun was hanging low in the sky. More time had passed than I had realized, but it didn't matter. The experience of joining them had been well worth the time. They offered for me to come with them to Haeundae beach, and I didn't hesitate to say yes. I knew my way back to Marina's by subway, and after all, this was my vacation -- why NOT do something completely out-of-the-ordinary with some friendly strangers? Mark, the designated driver for the night, chauffered us all to some high-in-the-mountaintops thoroughfare where we stopped to watch fireworks exploding along the beachfront and then walked along an outcropping of rocks for some amazing birds-eye-view scenery of Busan.

And then we descended back into the city, through the building traffic of folks looking for nightlife along the beach's promenade. We ended up back at the very spot I had been just the night before, looking on at staged dancers and heading towards one of those tall, flashy multi-story buildings I had eyed just the night before, when I had been hungry for some company to share the night with. Isn't funny how quickly things can turn around sometimes?

We entered the main floor of the building, and the sight and smell of fish, thrashing around in dozens of glass tanks overwhelmed me. Mark and Jim started their bargaining, choosing a huge and healthy live fish which was subsequently pulled from the tank, placed on a cutting board, and beheaded right before my eyes. The headless fish was bagged and handed back to Mark, while Jim, not quite finished with the transaction, reached his hand into another tank holding baby octopuses and pulled out a live one.

I watched as the almost transparent creature wrapped its suctioning tentacles around his wrist and fingers, with a fluid motion that, aside from being quite beautiful, seemed more than a bit of a shame. But my curiosity turned to shock as Jim untangled the tentacles from one finger and, with his other hand, began pulling the legs off the poor little creature. I had heard from more than one source that live baby octopus was some kind of delicacy in Korea, and I assumed that at some point I'd have a chance to sample it or watch as someone else did. But I didn't see this coming, especially when Jim thrust a tentacle at me and gestured for me to eat it.

I hesitated for a few moments as the detached tentacle clung to my finger as if making one final plea for mercy. It's hard to bring yourself to eat something that is writhing and moving acting absolutely still alive. Before I could think twice and talk myself out of it, I closed my teeth around the translucent-white tentacle and began to chew. Surprisingly, I didn't feel an overwhelming impulse to spit it out. Surprisingly, it really almost tasted pleasant. Surprisingly, I was eating live baby octopus. (Scott, you said it would happen... you were right!)

The rest of the evening was spent with the five of us sitting cross-legged around a low-lying table, a spread of sashimi-style raw fish filleted on a circular platter before us. There were dipping sauces (mostly of the soy sauce and wasabi variety), a clam stew, a seaweed salad, kimchi, and a plate of raw onions and garlic. It was the second time in the space of as many months that I had eaten raw fish, and in all seriousness, an experience I wouldn't mind repeating a few more. The entire meal was fantastic. Pops kept us all entertained with his laughable antics, Jim kept me distracted with his chiseled features and scruff (what IS it with me and men and scruff??), and Mark and Lisa just balanced out the whole wacky party.

Hours later, and way past bedtime, I crept quietly back into Marina's flat. Within the space of a few minutes of being back at Marina's, my entire Korean night on the town seemed like a tease, as if it were something I had simply dreamed up. What are the odds that a group of people would invite some random stranger along for a night of boozing and fine dining? It's amazing what kinds of adventures will find you when you're open to new experiences and not looking for anything in particular...