On Missed Buses and Meditation

So I missed my night bus to Seoul Friday night. As it turns out, this wasn't the only bus leaving my behind on my journey to Andong for the Mask Festival... After an excruciatingly long week of giving and grading written exams for EGA's entire student population, I woke the next morning to find my backpack and everything in it saturated from a water bottle that had leaked slowly throughout the night... The only silver lining (thank God for silver linings) is that my camera, cell phone, and batteries were somehow spared from the flood.

I had planned to take the first express bus Saturday morning to Daejeon, one of the big hub cities in the central-western part of the country, and the place from where I'd catch an onward bus to Andong. I pedaled to the bus terminal, bought my ticket, and settled into a hard plastic seat outside the terminal, underneath the sign posted for Platform 12. While I obviously don't read Korean, the tickets are usually pretty straightforward -- with a little hangul I can manage to double-check the destination I've purchased for, and besides that, the rest is mostly numbers: departing time, ticket price, platform number, you get the idea.

I knew I had a little time to kill, so I got out a book and started reading, watching through my peripheral vision for the bus that was bound to soon pull into slot 12. Minutes went by, then ten, then twenty, and with still no bus in sight, I pulled out my cell phone to check the time. It was 8:11 AM which, for my 8:10 bus, meant it was time to start panicking. Korean buses run like Swiss clocks -- they are extremely precise on departure times, which is more than a little impressive. In my three and a half months living in Korea, I've never been on a bus that has left more than one minute late. So you can imagine my reaction at seeing the time...

The realization somehow I'd made a grave mistake, and my express bus (the only one for the next three hours) had left without me hit with incredible speed. Sure enough, after thrusting my ticket at an elderly woman sitting next to me and sputtering out what could have only sounded like confusing jibberish to her, she shook her head despondently and pointed to the opposite end of the bus terminal. And there it was confirmed, by three chainsmokers employees hovering around the apparently correct Daejeon bus platform. It was still somewhat early Saturday morning, I felt slightly drugged from the events of the past week, and was just handed the bad news that I had missed my bus...

After inspecting my ticket, one of the employees brought me back to his office, where he looked up the bus timetables and pointed out the next departure for Daejeon, which was a 0h45 wait, but an indirect bus at that (meaning that one little minute between 8:10 and 8:11 AM had cost me a minimum of 2 hours). My mind clicked and whirred, as if trying to calculate whether to it was even worth making the trip to Andong, or whether I'd be better off scrapping all of my plans and turning back for the consolation prize of a quiet weekend at home. In the end, though, I willed myself onto that next bus, determined to see the trip through. Mask Festival is one of the events that I had had my heart set on experiencing while in Korea, and I just couldn't give up that easily.

I can't quite put my finger on the moment when my attitude shifted from disappointment to enjoyment, because for sure I spent the first bit on the bus convincing myself that I'd made the right choice to hop on board. But I spent the next seven hours on highways and city roads, winding my way slowly towards the opposite side of the country, peering out tinted windows and the ever-changing landscape and losing myself in thought. Out on the open road again, flying as much by the seat of my pants and with any real itinerary to note, and riding along in the solitude of self-contemplation amid the shuffles and chatters around me, my body began to loosen. My mind began to roam free. And I felt again the raw, visceral sensation which fills me whenever I find myself in touch again with my nomadic spirit. I began to remember my place in the ebb and flow of the world around me, and the freedom that I feel when I let go of time and schedules and just let life be.

As much as I was looking forward to the festivities in Andong and meeting up with some fellow CouchSurfers for the weekend, I was finding an unusual sort of fulfillment in this lengthy bus ride eastward. It was like a meditation of sorts, and a gratitude session, and my own little noraebang (karaoke room) rolled into one, and I no doubt amused my seatmate with the Rascal Flatts melodies I spiritedly emitted (when I'm feeling the music, I just can't hold back!). I felt the energy of being in motion, the childlike wonder of new experiences surrounding me, the recognition of the gifts that my previous experiences in life have bestowed upon me, even the overwhelming emotion of gratitude for all that I have been blessed with and have had the opportunity to learn and experience. It was like a beautiful upward spiral of thought and emotion, lifting me beyond my slightly cramped seat on the bus and out into the universe of possibility.

And seven hours later, as I pulled into Andong, my spirits were high, and I felt a smiling beaming out from somewhere deep within me. I would never have imagined that a missed bus could have resulted in such a thing... maybe I should miss my bus more often...