Busan, Korea (Part 2 of 4)
Fish markets and college admissions tests
One peculiar and annoying feature of grocery stores in Korea is the armies of hackers whose job is to announce to every passing shopper the specials of the week. These are ladies who sometimes have free samples to offer but, more often than not, stand there to point out that the tofu is “1+1” (that’s Korean for BOGO), or that customers should try the new sesame seed oil. “The persimmons just came in this morning!”; “Squid for half price, Gogek-nim (Dear Guest)!”
How am I supposed to browse the varieties of imitation crab meat or soy sauce with all this racket?
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One of the things that the Korean government does not make easy for foreigners is to conduct online transactions, whether for reservations for restaurants or rental cars, or for online purchases. We have tried to do all these things — without success. Our best guess is that they want to prevent identify theft or money laundering.
Hoping that a Korean card will solve our problem, we went to a bank branch close by. The polite manager tried to be helpful but ultimately gave us a lot of forms from which we gathered that we needed to register in the Korean National Foreigners’ Registry. We left, and on a whim, popped into another bank which, mysteriously, was happy for us to open a debit account, no foreigners registration required, thank you very much.
Let online transactions begin.
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N. and I have lived in quintessential American suburbs most of our lives: subdivisions with names that included words like “Farms” or “Park”; homes with lawns — which, to my eternal vexation, we threw money into to make the grass grow and then threw money at it again by paying people to cut the grown grass; black asphalt-topped driveways for cars that were essentially our “feet” and without which we couldn’t get anywhere in the ‘burbs.
So the Busan public transportation system was a revelation.
Central Busan and its immediate environs are covered by the subway system; its larger metropolitan area is linked to the subway through suburban trains; buses are everywhere. Getting around through a combination of trains and buses is easy, given the multiple and precise directions provided by navigation apps.
All other features are fancy icing on the cake. Bus stops have electronic signs that indicate which buses stop in that location and in how many minutes it is scheduled to arrive. Some crosswalks have red and green LED lights to make clear when it’s safe to cross. All subway stations are clean and well ventilated — with air purifiers that provide exact information about how many PPM is present in the air — and, most of all, safe: each platform includes see-through screens that open only after a train stops. Each time a group of subway cars stops on the platform, there are clearly marked signs for which specific car is the “warm car” (where the AC temperature setting is a bit higher), the “ladies’ car” (reserved for women-only during rush hours) and specially marked seats for seniors. Quite a few stations have koi ponds. All stations have elevators and all elevators work. Imagine.
But wait! There’s more! All subway stations in Busan have multiple public restrooms, which I realize might arouse dread, but have no fear: although a few facilities may show their age, they are meticulously maintained. I’ve yet to see an “out-of-order” sign; I’ve yet to walk into a stall which I found in less than clean condition. Koreans call the subway cleaning ladies “Cleaning Angels.”
The Busan transportation system is indeed quite heavenly.
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Our online transactions saga had not been resolved after all.
It seems that in order to make online transactions in Korea, a bank account and a phone account have to match. As far as we can figure, a bank account in N.’s name and a phone account in mine did not make the Korean online gods happy. So we spent the better part of a day getting N. a Korean phone number. Would this be enough? We’ll see.
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Today to Jagalchi Fish Market we go. It’s one of the biggest seafood markets in this coastal city full of seafood. I would love to describe the market as a bustling cacophony of merchants and locals and tourists amid fish and shellfish of all kinds… but I can’t because we happened to come on a first Tuesday of the month when — along with a third Tuesday — the market is closed.
This realization made me begin to suspect that our visit to the area was cursed — our previous lunch across the street from the fish market had been absolutely terrible. There’s nothing like that creeping knowledge when the food arrives and one realizes that one has unwittingly entered one of those tourist traps where hawkers ensnare you and you feel like there’s nothing you can do to escape the net (I felt some sympathy with the fish displayed in the tanks in front). I hardly touched my food — how dare they make terrible fish stew when their restaurant is across from the fish market.
Although Jagalchi Market was closed, the street market outside was still open in the late afternoon, and we walked around to marvel at the seafood offered. I’m afraid we were one of those tourists who annoyingly take pictures of the food but buy nothing. But in my defense, what would I do now with raw fish or dried shrimp?
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I assume that there’s a trail for those who want to walk all the way up to the Busan Tower observatory, but we got off the closest subway station and walked around the neighborhood until we found ourselves at the bottom of several up escalators. It felt a bit like cheating. We rode them to the top of hill, which was mercilessly free of skyscrapers and from which instead we got to look down on panoramic views of the port area.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t until we had paid for tickets to go up on the observatory itself that we discovered that the paid view was not much better — if one is going to charge people to go up a short tower for views through windows, one should keep these windows clean. So another pro-tip: going up the hill of the Busan Tower is worth the hike; paying for entrance to the tower itself, not so much.
Although it felt like a three-strikes-and-you’re-out kind of outing, by the time we hiked down the hill — steps only, no down escalators — our luck improved a bit. It had gotten dark, but that only made the neon lights brighter, so we walked around the shops in BIFF Square and the stores and restaurants around Gukje Market. N. finally ate a tasty oyster pancake, although I was convinced that the poor little dog on top of the fridge by the entrance of the restaurant was definitely breaking sanitation laws.
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One geographical quirk of Busan is that the city, while packed to the gills with apartment—, condo—, and office buildings, is also dotted generously with hills and mountains that provide green breaks in the concrete jungle. So it’s not unusual to see in the subway hikers in full gear — boots, backpacks, hiking poles — next to office workers in suits and briefcases, headed to one trailhead or another, easily accessible by public transport.
We joined these urban mountaineers by a rocky coast at the Busan National Geopark Oryukdo-Igidae Geotrail. The Korean words “Oryukdo” mean “Five-Six Islands”, so named because depending on one’s point of view, one can see five or six rocky little isles out in the ocean.
We began at the southern point by the Oryukdo Skywalk, a gimmicky tourist spot where a short clear acrylic walkway stuck out beyond the rocky shore to the edge of the water. That there was no paid admission to walk onto the Skywalk was a nice surprise; that the workers by the entrance of the walkway made us sit on a bench and put on cloth covers over our shoes so we wouldn’t scratch the walkway made us smile. Members of an American trio were struggling to convince a fearful one to walk on the see-through section of the platform, but she refused to let go of her death grip on the railing.
N. snapped his photos and we continued on the trail that meandered along the craggy coast. Mercifully, some steep sections were covered by straw mats — to prevent slipperiness and mud on rainy days — while others included long but steep stairs.
We could see the mega-buildings along Marine City and Haeundae when we were on a finger that stuck out onto the sea; inland, we could almost pretend that we were on a remote trail far from civilization. We kept peeling layers because of the heat generated by the longer-than-expected hike and the warmer-than-expected weather.
By the time we got to the wharf and the suspension bridges, we were rewarded by a view of the Gwangandaegyo Bridge and Gwangalli Beach.
As a special treat for all our industrious hiking today, we had an early dinner at a hanwoo grill restaurant. “Hanwoo” is marketed as a special type of Korean beef, but couldn’t all beef served in Korea be called “Korean beef” for marketing purposes? Koreans love their grilling tables. But at the risk of sounding lazy, I recently realized that, if I’m going out to a restaurant, I don’t want to do the work of actually cooking my own meal.
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Besides a staffed front desk, our building has a gym in the basement. It also has a sauna; Koreans are fond of saunas, which is definite proof that I’m not Korean at all. The gym is large with the usual treadmills and weight machines, and a few more of the less usual ones. One is called the Multi Vibrator: we are to step on and turn a few knobs, which in turn leads to the shaking of the whole body; it seems like a bad idea to get onto a contraption which reminds that all one’s muscles are jello. Another looks like a giant abacus: people sit on the bench, drape their legs over the rings, and press a button: the wooden rings turn to provide leg massages. N. and I stuck to our familiar rat wheels.
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Seomyeon is a young and hip neighborhood in Busan that attracts both locals and hordes of tourists: there are the big department stores, the smaller souvenir shops, the myriad K-Beauty stores, the various restaurants and smaller snack stands — and neon lights to highlight them all.
We realized quickly that this was not our jam. I mean, we were glad to walk around the madness for the sake of clapping our eyes on a place that is considered a “must visit” for tourists, but that magical combination of people, lights and noise gave us a pretty good idea of what kinds of stimulation might induce a seizure in any healthy person. N. and I ended up walking around the alleys like zombies — sometimes in repeating circles. We saw office workers walking determinedly towards restaurants that served meat dishes and alcohol; we saw students in uniforms trying to find outlets for their stress (college entrance exams are less than a week away); we saw tourists walking into shops and eateries while dragging their luggage behind them. Our senses found it almost impossible to process it all.
By this time, we were starving, so we escaped the streets and walked into a fried chicken restaurant for ChiMek (“Chi” = Chicken; “Mek” = Mekju/Beer).
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For high school seniors in Korea, November is Soo-neung season.
In the Korean system of college admissions, students take the Soo-neung exam at the end of their senior year, usually in November (graduation is a couple of months later). The test includes four parts: Korean Language, Mathematics, English, and one Subject of Choice (whether in the sciences like Chemistry, or the humanities like Korean History). Testing takes place across the country in one day, from 8 am to 6 pm. Students may apply to colleges after the results of their Soo-neung exams are received. For example, an outstanding score would allow a student to apply to Seoul National University (the Korean Harvard), while an average score might prevent a student from applying at all, although they may apply to other less competitive schools. Students who do not achieve the score necessary for the application to the college of their choice might choose to spend another whole year — post-graduation — attending tutoring centers to prepare exclusively for the Soo-neung the following year. It’s not unheard-of for students to spend 2 to 5 years (!) on such “make-up” years, preparing for the exam. It’s Darwin’s natural selection happening in real time.
On exam day, drivers are asked to refrain from honking their horns to avoid stressing and distracting students during the test; to avoid distractions in school, younger students stay home. Ambulances and police cars turn on their lights and give late students rides to school. And as added insurance for good exam results, parents make pilgrimages to Buddhist temples with offerings of flowers, rice, and money.
An early subway ride connected to an inter-city bus took us to the Palgongsan Provincial Park, site of the Seonbonsa Temple considered an especially auspicious place to offer prayers and offerings related to college admissions. N and I were treating the whole thing like a field trip — talking and laughing — but we stressed a parent on the bus who was probably tired by the early start and just wanted to sleep until our destination. When he could stand it no longer, a man called out in an irritated voice, “Let's just go quietly please!”
The bus deposited us at the entrance of the park. High up on the mountain, we looked up as frigid winds blew and the only thing that we could see were steps leading even higher. Time for the parents to show their devotion. A banner indicated that the temple had been running a “Countdown To the Test”, whereby some parents had been making the pilgrimage for the last thirty days. The trail was mostly made up of stone steps, so it wasn’t terribly hard, but signs warned pilgrims to take breaks on their ascent and to beware of signs of potential heart attacks (!).
We reached a couple of courtyards, whereby colorful lanterns (hanging in return for monetary offerings) included hundreds of tags filled with names of students and their hopes for good Soo-neung scores, for admissions to specific colleges — one even mentioned an American college — and for specific programs (medical school, arts & design).
On the highest level of the mountain sat a very scholarly Buddha, looking as if he were wearing a graduation cap. Temple workers (but no monks as far as I could see) were welcoming from parents — mostly mothers — offerings and donations of rice and flowers. A speaker blared sounds of chantings and parents offered their bows and prayers for their children’s academic success. I personally observed it all with only one thought in my head: thank goodness my children were all grown up!
We descended the mountain, had a lunch of vegetarian bibimbap, and washed our own rice bowl afterwards — a common temple practice. Back on the bus for a quiet ride back to Busan — so as not to irritate the “Let’s just go quietly please!” parent.
A few days later, on Soo-neung Exam Day, the evening news brought in talking heads commenting on the types of questions that showed up on this year’s exams, on their level of difficult, on the predictions for this year’s admissions numbers. It also showed clips of students going into their tests; of parents hugging their kids and wishing them luck; of a police car dropping a late student by the school gate. Most touching was the clip of a girl who stopped her parents who were in the car and about to drive away after dropping her off: she bowed deeply in front of the car as a sign of gratitude for all their sacrifice and support. I choked up a bit on that scene.
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So getting a Korean phone number did not solve our problems. We returned to our bank and they also resorted to telling us that without foreigner registration numbers, we would not be able to conduct any online transactions. We gave up.
Bank ordeal really ends.
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