Roaming Among Relics in Mt. Namsan

The plan was to spend the day hiking in Mt. Namsan, a virtual open-air museum of ancient relics strewn through the mountains bordering Gyeongju to the south. I'm a lover of nature and while not necessarily big on walking through carefully-displayed artifacts behind heavily protected museum walls, I was fascinated with the idea of combining a day of hiking with the discovery of some Silla period pieces of history.

As I rounded the stairwell towards the front door, Mr. Kwon caught me. "Where you going today?" he said, in his cheerful, heavy Korean accent. I shared with him my plan.
"You walk, don't take bus," he told me, more of a direct order than a helpful suggestion. "Walking, not far. I walk Namsan all the time. You take bus, two hour, maybe three hour," his hands making a snaking motion to hit the point home. He gave me some basic directions -- walk to the main traffic circle, take a right, walk straight for quite a ways. I figured that was enough to get me started. I wasn't in any hurry, I had carved out the entire day for exploring Namsan. So I set off on foot.

Half an hour later, already drenched with sweat from the burning sun, a sprightly older man, heading my direction on his bicycle, stopped to surmise where I could possibly be walking all by myself. "Namsan," I told him, which brought an immediate look of concern. He pointed at his bicycle, as if to say I was going to need one if I was planning to get myself all the way to Namsan, and then continued in a stream of Korean chatter. I hadn't realized how intent he was on helping me out until a few minutes later when, armed with a very ambiguous mental map of where it was I'd find the next bus, he walked me across the street and waved me on in a different direction.

I'd like to credit my keen sense of direction for finding the bus stop, but I think it had something more to do with good fortune that I managed to maneuver myself through a hodgepodge of mud-baked walls and a century-old Korean neighborhood before finally turning down the street that led to a bus stop. But either way, I soon found myself en route to Samneung, entrance point to Namsan's hiking trails.

As luck would have it, within an hour of setting off on the trail, I had managed to connect with Noemi, the Belgian actress I had met at the Hanjin roof party. And a short time later, the two of us crossed paths with Kevin and Katie, who had decided to spend their last day in Gyeongju hiking as well. Being that Namsan was no small walk in the park, I found it incredible that all of us would happen to meet on the trails. Is there such a thing as coincidence?

We climbed up to Sangseonam, a Buddhist hermitage, and cooled ourselves with refreshing swallows of fresh mountain water from an adjacent spigot. Colorful paper lanterns swayed ever so slightly in the subtle breeze, and the peaceful stillness of the place gave each of us a temporary respite from our hiking rigors.

At Sangseonam, Noemi and I parted ways with Kevin and Katie, who had to head back to the bus station for their onward connections. But it turned out to be the best of all possible scenarios that Noemi and I had met, as I doubt seriously that I would have managed to make the journey up and over the ridge of Namsan mountain, and down again to Yongjang village, on the other side of the mountain... at least, in one piece.

Together, we hoisted ourselves up gigantic rocks, and lowered ourselves down steep inclines with the use of thick ropes. We cut through a thick, dark bamboo forest and rested our feet in the cool water of a gurgling stream. Here and there, we came upon ancient figures carved in the rock face of the mountain, a crumbling pagoda standing erect against a backdrop of mountains, a beheaded statue commanding a reverent pause.

The entire adventure lasted about six hours before we descended into Yongjang village. From there, we managed to find a bus that brought us back to Gyeongju proper. Our bodies were tired, leg muscles exhausted, stomachs gurgling from emptiness, but the journey had been a memorable one. And having someone to share the experience with made it even more of a pleasure.

Back at the hostel, Noemi prepared for her departure to Busan, and I headed off to the showers. Before long, I had fallen asleep under the open pages of my guidebook. And aside from a middle-of-the-night awakening when Mr. Kwon opened my door to check that I was in (he locks up the hostel each night), I slept right through until the following morning, oblivious to the continuation of the backpacker party on the roof just a flight of stairs above me. Sometimes a girl just needs her rest.

Discovering Gyeongju

(continued from previous post)

And so it was that I discovered Gyeongju...

... discovered the camel-like humps in Tumuli Park that served as ancient burial tombs.


... discovered fields of orange-gold wildflowers stretching out towards the mountains.


... discovered Gyerim Forest, shaded and shadowed with towering trees arching against the sun.


... discovered side streets and back roads, ancient pagodas and modern playing fields flecked with uniformed youngsters running after soccer balls.

I wandered through Wolseong Park, where families and cuddly couples rode along the flat, paved road in foot-powered buggy cars, listening to the cicadas pulsing their song through the heavy August air. And I meandered through the lily gardens near Anapji Pond, taking in the delicious smell of freshly blooming flowers against of backdrop of verdant green.

And after all of this, plus a bike ride taking me several miles out of town to Bomun Lake, my back tire gave out, slowly leaking out air until it was dead flat. Miles from the bike shop, I tried riding my way back towards town, but the going was tough, and very inefficient. Eventually, I
hopped off the bike and began my long walk back.

I was perhaps within a mile of the shop when an old, half-hunched little ajumma, stopped at a red light with me, noticed my flat tire and my predicament. She gestured and pointed and rattled on for the entire 3-minute wait to cross the road. The old woman kept pointing at my tire
and pointing down a street in quite the opposite direction I was intending to walk. I assumed she wanted to show me to a shop where I could fix my tire. But that wasn't my plan -- I'd just walk the bike back to the shop, I figured, and do my own gesturing and pointing to let them know the tire had gone flat. It was only a rental, after all, and I was sure that they were used to the occasional flat tire brought in with a returning customer.

But the ajumma wouldn't have any of it. She flagged down a young girl walking towards us to help her relay her important message, and finally, not knowing how else to communicate that her help was appreciated but not needed, I gave in and followed her down the road. We walked and walked and walked, probably close to a kilometer, before stopping outside a shop spilling over with bicycles. The ajumma exchanged a few words with the shop owner, pointed at me, then waved goodbye and scurried on further down the sidewalk.

I had no intention of paying for a new tire or even a repair, and wasn't quite sure how to get out of the obligation of either. So I was greatly relieved to find that the man could speak a little English, enough at least that he could understand I had rented the bicycle. When I pointed out the shop's phone number stickered on the bicycle, he grabbed his cell phone and called the rental shop for me. And then he motioned me to a chair where, he explained, I could wait until the rental shop came with a van to pick up me and the bike.

An hour and a half later, I was back at the hostel. The wait had been long and tedious, but I had managed to stick it out. Tired, sticky with sweat, and hungry, I managed to cook up a plate of vegetables and settle into a cushioned chair on the hostel's rooftop, where a small party of backpackers was forming.

The rest of the night was spent in good company -- Desmond and Patrick, two solo travelers making large circuits through Asia, and who happened to both be from Ireland; Jean Luc, a middle-aged man from France, whose wife and young son were sleeping just downstairs; Katie and Kevin, two college friends from California backpacking around Japan and Korea before continuing on to Beijing to watch a friend of theirs compete on the U.S. water polo team. There were others, as well -- Noemi, an actress from Belgium, traveling solo in Korea and Japan; and a twenty-something French guy (whose name I could never pronounce), with beautiful features and an even more beautiful accent.

By 1:00 AM, the impromptu party had begun to disband. I shuffled back down to my "closet" and quickly resigned myself to a night of sweltering sleep. But what could I complain about? I had seen an eclectic mix of Gyeongju -- ancient relics, urban sprawl, helpful old ladies, and even the inside of a couple of bicycle shops. Gyeongju was quickly making its way up the "My Favorite Places in Korea" list.

Jagalchi Fish Markets and Getting My Feet Wet in Gyeongju

I somehow managed to drag my tired body to the Jagalchi Fish Markets this morning, mostly because, this being my last morning in Busan, I figured I'd later be pretty chapped with myself if I skipped it altogether. It took an hour each direction via metrorail to get to the markets, which in retrospect, had I realized upfront, would have blown the deal altogether.

Still, I made the trip, but either I arrived too late (@ 7 AM) to see any "real" action, or it was basically the same as any traditional Korean market, with a really, really huge critters-of-the-sea section. No matter. It was still a vivid sensory experience to take in the sights and smells of the market, to walk past umbrella after umbrella showcasing long, slender, silver-gray eel-like fish, or gigantic snails still wriggling underneath a netted tarp. It was almost a game to see if I could recognize the items for sale as seafood I had ever eaten before. (In case you were wondering, I lost the game by a landslide.)

After walking the perimeter of the markets, I returned to Marina's place to pack up my bags and head on to my next destination, a city famously known throughout Korea as the capitol of the ancient Silla empire -- Gyeongju. I had heard plenty of great things about Gyeongju; everyone from Koreans I know to foreigner teaching in Korea to backpackers working their way across the country seem to have a special affinity for Gyeongju. And I was looking forward to my three days there.

Buses from Busan were incredibly frequent, and it didn't take more than 20 minutes from the time that I arrived at the bus station to purchase my ticket and be on my way. A short hour later, we pulled into the Gyeongju Express Bus Terminal, and my backpack and I were on our way to Hanjin Hostel. Hanjin is the one (to my knowledge) backpacker spot in Gyeongju, and compared the cost of even low-end minbak (hotels), cheap as chips. Of course, as I was soon to find out, it is cheap for good reason.

Mr. Kwon, the hostel owner, met me at the door. An older man with deep-set wrinkles, wiry body, and a kind face, Mr. Kwon had been running his hostel for years. He showed me to my room, the last door on the right down a long, dim hallway, where a dingy mattress was parked on the floor and the entire hostel's set of folded blankets was stacked on a low platform against the wall. The room (more of an elongated closet) was equipped with a broken fan that could only circulate air within a 12" radius, and a large iron-barred window without a screen (meaning, I'd be taking a gamble with lurking mosquitoes if I wanted to to open it for circulation at night).

But probably the most disconcerting feature was that there was no key to my room... and no way to lock any valuables inside. Mr. Kwon seemed honest enough, and his hostel had been around long enough, that I was willing to take my chances that my backpack and belongings would be safe despite the lack of a lock. As it turned out, it was a good gamble to make.

After settling in to my "closet," I headed out to the main street where I had remembered seeing a bicycle rental shop. Though Gyeongju is a fairly large city, the bulk of its attractions are clustered in a compact section that can easily be transversed by bike. Plus, the idea of riding around town behind a set of handlebars sounded appealing. I've had a "thing" for bikes since backpacking through Europe two years ago... something about the way the wind rushes around you as your feet and legs propel you down the road, the way that the smells of fresh-cut grass or the sound of chirping birds can't escape you the way they can in a bus or a car. There's nothing to close you off from the world around you, and yet you can see so much more and go so much further than your feet alone can take you.

(to be continued)

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...

Trekking Up and Tracking Down the North Gate

At 5:30 AM when my alarm clock went off, reminding me of my standing appointment with Busan's early-morning Jagalchi Fish Market, I rolled over and played dead. I can't remember the last time my body was actually up and at it at 5:30 AM and today just didn't seem the day to set any new precedents. It took about 0.2 seconds for me to fall back into a delicious sleep, and I somehow was so deeply unconscious that I never even heard Marina get ready or leave the apartment for her day at work.

My short visit last night to Gwangali beach had been so entertaining that I figured it was worth a second look. From my observations, the sand had less of a rough sandpaper quality than Haeundae, and I was keeping my fingers crossed, at least, that it being a Monday, a lot of the beachgoing population would fall off. It didn't matter that the sky was thick with a milky haze, so much so that not a sliver of sun was leaking through. Just to sit on a beach, undisturbed, and listen to the sound of the waves break against the shore sounded as close to perfect as a beach could get in Korea. Besides, my skin had turned distastefully pale since coming to Seosan 7 weeks before, and the though the skies above were clouded over, I was still convinced that I wasn't beyond reach of a little UV.

It turns out my plan was a wise one.  Within 20 minutes of parking myself on the sand, the clouds lifted and hot, hot sun filtered down through deep blue sky. It was amazing the immediate difference the sun made in the temperature and heaviness of the air surrounding me. And though (thanks to Fido) I wouldn't be cooling off from the sun in the salty water just a few meters away, I at least had the luxury of a makeshift "bathhouse" just a stone's throw away, where I could rinse away stray sand with a cool stream of shower water at the push of a button. It was perfect. And with no threatening ajummas or parades of parasols or interrupting intercoms, Gwanali -- at least for today -- seemed comparatively fabulous.

After a leisurely sunbath, I was ready to stretch my legs a bit, and managed to find a Tourist Information desk quite nearby where I hoped to get some information about hiking around Busan's old fortress walls. From Geumjang Park, in northern Busan, it is possible to hike to Beomeosa temple, along trails that lead towards ancient gates and crumbling walls. And with the disappointment of finding myself without camera batteries on my visit to Beomeosa two days ago, it seemed fitting to return. 

The young girl behind the counter met my English "Hello!" with one of her own, and I was relieved that she seemed a bit eager to speak to me in a language that I actually understood. I asked her my questions, and she started in with a reply in a beautiful British accent that seemed so oddly out of place coming out of a Korean mouth. Of course, she had either been taught by British teachers, or had spent some time studing the language in England itself. It was refreshing, and amusing, and she was so downright nice (although as it turned out, not very knowledgeable) that I couldn't help but leave with a smile.

An hour and a half later, I was again walking the quiet temple grounds at Beomeosa, amusing myself with the vertigo-inducing upward views into the bamboo forests and lush, verdant downward views overlooking the temple and the green hilly mountains beyond. With a little luck, I managed to find the entrance to what turned out to be an astonishingly steep hike up a forest of gargantuan boulders and rocks. Either side of the trail was tied off with bungee cables, marking clearly for would-be hikers the path leading out of Beomeosa. Despite the thick, humid heat, I kept charging ahead, hoisting myself up the trail while perspiration saturated my skin and clothing and my lungs burned a bit from my breathlessness.

Finally, I reached the North Gate where I took the stone steps leading to its lookout post and caught the view of a low-lying stone wall running up and over the green hills to the east and the west. These were fortress walls built centuries upon centuries ago, now nestled among shrubs and flowering trees, holding the attention of curious hikers for a few minutes or more before being left to stand in their stoic isolation.  After exploring the area, I continued on straight ahead down the trail, not realizing until too late that the trail itself must have turned along the fortress walls. I kept walking for some time, passing quaint mountain huts and a family of charcoal-black goats who eyed me with apprehension.

A few minutes later, I heard a gentle honk and turned to see some slightly famililar faces smiling out at me from the backseat of a shiny black car. A few Koreans I had crossed paths with at the gate were on their way out of the mountain, and were offering to give me a lift. Sticky with sweat, I folded at the thought of sitting in a cushy air-conditioned car, and hopped into the front seat. We drove for 15 minutes before reaching the exit of the park, and with each minute that ticked by, I was increasily grateful to these strangers for saving me from what would have been a very long, and not remotely scenic, hike.

When they finally dropped me off, I managed to find my bearings enough to realize that I was close to Geumgang Park, which was my original plan anyway. From here, I could take a cable car up the mountain for impressive views of bustling Busan, and that was precisely what I set out to do. Little did I know that within the hour, I would be making friends with a lively if somewhat odd mix of Koreans would would invite me into their circle, and that I would end up on a crazy escapade lasting until the wee hours of morning... But that's another story...

The Beaches of Busan: Trading Peace for Parasols

I woke early this morning as sunlight streamed in the windows of Marina's flat -- what a change from the subtle rays of indirect morning light that barely seem to reach my apartment back in Seosan. It didn't matter that my body had been horizontal for nearly twelve hours; I was relishing the reality that I had a week to take at whatever pace I chose.

And for the moment, at least, a lazy Sunday morning chewing through Alex Garland's novel "The Beach" seemed the best of all possibilities. Especially when, minutes later, a shroud of gray settled over the sun and stayed put for the next few hours, bringing on a few light showers that lasted until late morning.

By 11:30 I was tired of waiting for the clouds to burn off, and eager to see a bit more of Busan. I had hoped for bright skies and beach-perfect weather, but I'd make do with whatever I had at my disposal. So I pulled a slipdress over my swimming suit and headed toward the metro station. An hour later I was stepping off the metro in Dongbaek, a 15-minute walk to the rocky headlands on a small peninsula overlooking the Sea of Japan. I wandered through the APEC building, a famous spot for national and international peace talks, and took in the view of Gwangali bridge and the gray-blue water stretching out and beyond it. Here a sailboat breeze along the water, there a fisherman cast his line in the foaming spray.

I walked along the coastline until I reached Haeundae, Busan's most popular beach bustling with more weekend activity than should be allowed on any beachfront. Parasols literally stretched from one corner of the beach to the other, a continual sea of red and white plastic, creating one enormous canopy of shade for the sun-phobic beachgoers (is that an oxymoron, or is it just me?) settling into the sand.

After some ordeal trying to communicate to the eager entrepreneurs flocking to me that I didn't want a parasol, beach chair, or anything else for that matter, I managed to miraculously find some unshaded spot to spread out my meager towel and relax under the cloud-covered sky. No sooner had I stretched out and begun to relax, then a high-pitched voice squealed from mounted loudspeakers just a few yards from where I lay, shattering any semblance of peacefulness I had begun to spin around me. It didn't take long for me to realize that the obnoxious loudspeaker announcements were more or less a permanent fixture, background noise to the caucophany of distractions swirling around me.

This was a beach, was it not? People did come here to relax, did they not? This has to amount to one of the most stress-inducing beach experiences I've had thus far...

Minutes later, I woke to see a fiesty ajumma rattling off some unpleasant-sounding words aimed at me, pointing at her beach mats and gesturing to me wildly, as if I were some kind of low-life for taking up her precious sand space without agreeing to pay for the pleasure of using one of her plastic beach mats. I hastily gathered up my things and stomped off northward, in disbelief at the impossibility of relaxation to be found on Haeundae. I must have lucked out because, after walking for several minutes, I came to what appeared to be the perimeter of a sound stage and just adjacent to it, a comparably quiet spot of sand where I promptly parked it.

I spent the next hour in relative peace, despite the continual stream of people traipsing up and down the boardwalk just behind me. At one point, the Korean family spread out in a beach tent just next to me made their way to my towel with a hunk of juicy watermelon to share. It was a simple gesture, but went a long way towards smoothing over the irritations of the day.

I rounded out my day with a late-afternoon trip to nearby Yongungsa Temple, about an hour by bus northward along the coast. This Buddhist temple is set beautifully on an outcropping of rocks along the shore. And between stone carvings, lilting monk-led melodies, and a massive gold-laquered smiling Buddha set into the hillside, it was the perfect place to ward off the heat of the day.

I sat for awhile on the rocks overlooking the grayish waves rippling below, watching the parade of Korean parents toting youngsters, older couples hobbling up and down the stone-carved steps leading to the temple complex, others stepping forward to light incense and send a prayer to the skies.

As night began to fall over Busan, I took one last subway ride to Gwanali Beach, hoping to enjoy a little bit of the night scene that comes to life here on summer evenings. Sure enough, there was no shortage of couples, families, and larger gatherings of people milling about, parked on blankets along the beachfront, walking to and from the restaurant area where flashy, multi-story buildings glowed with neon lights of enticement, and looking on at dancers on a wide stage, performing for an appreciative audience under the stars. The energy of the locale was so enjoyable that I felt a bit disappointed at the realization that I had no one to linger here longer with. But this is the trade-off for the freedom of traveling alone.

And with that, I began my hour-long walk and metro ride back to Marina's flat, where I finally got to meet the girl who saved me from bumming off a park bench the night before. As it turns out, Marina was absolutely delightful to visit with; an optimistic and warm young woman who had no doubt been dealt a challenging hand at the public school where she had been working for the past month since coming to Korea. Talking to her brought home to me a wave of gratitude for the teaching situation that I have been given in Seosan.

It's always tempting to compare and to assume that others have things better than you. Marina's apartment, for example, was much more modern and spacious than my own. She lived in the middle of a thriving metropolis with access to beautiful mountain trails and beaches, and on an excellent train line connecting her to points all over the country. On the surface, it seemed, I really had the short end of the stick. But after spending some time visiting with her, I began to see that truly, everything evens out, and that for me, teaching at EGA is the best of all possible scenarios for me at this point in time.

Day 2 of vacation week had come to a close. It had been eventful, moments of relaxation sandwiched between overpopulated beachfronts and a plethora of perspiration. But all things considered, today had been a discovery, a change of pace, and a soft adventure. And with a little rest, I'd be ready to do it all over again tomorrow.

Backpacking Begins: The Bullet Train to Busan

Despite nearly cancelling my travel plans due to complications from my nasty Fido attack, I decided Thursday afternoon that I was well enough to still make the most of my one-week vacation (which began Saturday morning). It was cutting things close by Thursday when I made the final call, close enough that all hostels in Busan were booked, and I had to reserve my second-choice bullet train from Cheonan, as all seats on Saturday morning's first train to Busan had all been reserved.

The next few days were a bit stressful as I sent off multiple CouchSurfing requests in hopes of finding someone who would be willing to host me. I hadn't realized until far too late that the weekend of my intended arrival was also the beginning of a huge month-long beach festival in Busan proper. And everybody, it seemed, was planning to attend.

I managed the good fortune of getting in contact with a sweet girl named Marina, originally from the Ukraine, and on teaching contract for a year in Busan. Although she wouldn't be back from the Rock Concert until Sunday afternoon, she offered to leave me her keys so that I could help myself in to her flat and crash at her place for the night. This is the spirit of CouchSurfing, which is something that, try as I might, I simply can't seem to successfully explain to friends and acquaintances curious about this worldwide travelers-helping-travelers community.

Yes, Marina and I were complete strangers. Yes, she was leaving me the key to her place. Yes, I have done the same. And yes, people really can be that trusting.

Saturday was a long one -- I was up Friday night until far too late (2 AM!) catching up with a few close friends, tying up loose ends, and packing up for a week of backpacking. It had been a while since I was last in "backpacking mode," and I have to admit that my efficiency was terrible. But finally, a few slim hours before my bus would pull out of Seosan's terminal and route me to Cheonan (where I'd catch the high-speed train to Busan), I managed to fall into bed and passed out without a moment's hesitation. Finishing up all the odds and ends (watering my lily, taking out the trash, etc. etc.) took me longer than I had planned and, after running to the nearest taxi stand, flagging down an empty cab, and flying down the quiet Saturday morning streets of Seosan, I made it on the bus with just a minute to spare before my one chance of making my connections slipped out of my reach.

Several hours later, I was in Busan, standing in a mob of people waiting to purchase subway tickets in one of Busan's busiest metro stations. Marina had called me while I was en route on the train, and I had quickly scrawled onto a corner of my guidebook page her detailed directions on how to reach her apartment somewhere in the middle of Korea's second-largest city. After managing to get my metro ticket and board the right metrorail train, I settled in for what turned out to be another 45-minute commute uptown to the Oncheonjang stop. As it turned out, Marina's directions were flawless; within the space of another 20 minutes, I had unearthed the key from a potted plant one flight up from her apartment entrance, and was sopping the perspiration off of my face with the hem of my blouse. I had forgotten how oppressive high-summer humidity can be, especially with a 20-pound backpack strapped to my back.

After settling in, repacking the bare essentials into my daybag, rehydrating myself with some cold water, and giving my guidebook a quick once-over, I decided that my best plan of attack would be to head to Beomeosa, a Buddhist temple set in the mountains of Busan, and one of the city's finest attractions. Navigating a foreign country with little to no language skills always proves to be an interesting undertaking -- depending on the amount of patience involved, it can be either humorous or irritating. Fortunately, even with sideshow of a toothless man dressed in camouflage and combat boots who insisted on blowing me kisses for the entire bus ride up in the mountains, I was able to keep everything in a pleasant perspective. That is, until I walked onto the temple grounds, drew out my SLR to take my first photo... and discovered that I had failed to install the battery...

That discovery put an immense damper on my explorations, but soon I was reveling in the silent peacefulness of the temple grounds, craning my neck upwards to the tops of the bamboo shoots springing up alongside a temple wall, eavesdropping respectfully on the chanting and song of monks and worshippers kneeling barefoot in the inner chambers of many of the prayerhouses. A monk dressed in simple brown clothing stepped out from behind a closed gate and began sweeping the stone steps leading up to the entranceway, and a gaggle of school children, dressed in matching yellow tee-shirts, pattered through open courtyard, both bringing a unique energy to the scenery and stillness surrounding me.

After soaking up the whole experience, I managed to make it back to Oncheonjang and rounding up a few days' worth of fruits and vegetables before my body all but caved in from exhaustion. I had Marina's flat to myself and, despite the charms of Busan beckoning from just beyond her windowpane, I knew that what I needed more than anything was some quality sleep. So I curled up on the hard wood floor with the novel I had borrowed from Tahira just before leaving, and let the written words lull me to sleep. And despite my best intentions to venture out again later that evening, I managed to sleep almost straight through til morning on that hard wood floor. My vacation had officially begun.