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| Busan at night. Not my photo. |
The passage was rough. It was a cloudy yet windy day, and the straits between Geoje and the mainland were awash with some rather energetic waves. Out on the open sea the boat went up and down like a...like a...well, like a boat going up and down on some rather energetic waves. I'm sure anybody out there who's ever done anything like this will know what I mean. We'd hit an oncoming wave, the entire deck would tilt up at an impressive angle, then we'd crash down again with a bang and a spray of water. After thirty minutes of this, most of the passengers looked pretty green. I must admit, sitting in that stifling cabin with the cloying heat and moisture of a hundred human bodies, I got a bit queasy myself. Out on the rear deck it was better, with the fresh breeze blowing in your face (I had to hold on to my hat tightly). I even dared the waves a little. Similar to jumping in an elevator, I'd wait until we were at the peak of our ascent up a wave and about to drop down once again before jumping into the air, hanging suspended for an extra second or two. Similarly, I'd wait until we were just about to strike head-on, then jump and get a jolt to my knees as the ferry deck rose to meet me. It was good fun; sometimes the sun even broke through the clouds and made one feel as if all was right with the world.
We hit Busan and negotiated briefly for a cab. After learning that the aggressive big-city cabbies wanted to charge our twelve-person party ₩25,000 per cab, we left them and their poor haggling skills and took the subway. We weren't so far from Haeundae (as we would have been if we'd taken the cheap ferry; that landed you in Jinhae, at the far western edge of the city). The coastal ferry terminal was smack dab on the southern end of downtown. But we weren't going to Haeundae first. We'd received word of a soccer (football, as Andy and Adam and Chris insisted on calling it) game at the World Cup Stadium, so we endured the long subway ride in that direction.
While we did, I noticed a particularly attractive young Korean lady in a white pantsuit with big, pretty eyes and attractively cropped black hair. Having been too chicken to try out my Korean pick-up lines on the cute cashier in Top Mart (thus far), I opted to try them out in consequence-free Busan instead. I caught her attention and said, clearly: "Yeppun yeoja imnida." ("You are a pretty lady.") She smiled and said thank you...in English. We had a very nice little conversation: she asked me where I was from, and how long I'd been in Korea, and so forth. She seemed a little flustered, but she was smiling and friendly. I was quite sad to part with her at the door of the subway, for our station arrived mere minutes later. Ships that pass in the night, strangers on a train, and all that jazz...
We emerged from the subway into the turbulently breezy day and soldiered to our destination. Despite the fact that the whole stadium (ticket booth, seats and pitch) was as deserted as the premier of the movie Beerfest should've been, we went confidently in and took a look around. We even eschewed the stands and walked right out onto the field. But for ourselves and a couple of guys setting up the sound system, we were alone. This struck us as odd, seeing as how the game should've started twenty minutes before our arrival. So we asked the two electricians.
"Gaeim isseoyo?"
"Ne, ne."
"Eonje imnikka?"
"Yeodeolpshi imnida."
Yes, there was a soccer game...in seven hours. We'd showed up at one o'clock; the game wasn't until eight. That would rather put a damper on the binge drinking we had planned later that evening, so we said screw it, marched a few hundred yards to the northeast, and bought baseball tickets instead.
Then we had a burger at McDonald's (Jeff had two; he's a machine) and then adjourned to Haeundae via the subway to get our rooms and prepare for the night's festivities. We had a couple hours before the ball game started; we planned to get changed and have a preparatory drink in Haeundae and then head back to the stadium. This we did. We had about three beers each at an open-air bar just down the road from the beach. Other foreigners walked in and out, scandalously clad Korean women in tow; but the service was good and the spiced popcorn and salted pasta sticks were in plenty.
After an hour we paid up and headed for the stadium. Before that, however, we stopped in at a convenience store and loaded up: a bottle of soju each, as well as some makgeolli. This last is a different kind of Korean liquor, the color of milk, also distilled from rice but sweeter than soju or baekseju. It's less than ten percent alcohol, but you've got to try it once. Unfortunately the brand we got was utter crap. It was fizzy, for one thing; that should've tipped us off right there. But we reluctantly sucked it down. Andy had perfected an alcoholic technique where one purchases a bottle of soju and a liter of Chilsung cider (remember, that sickeningly-sweet Korean lemon-lime soda), drains half the bottle of cider, and pours the soju in. The result is a whole bottle of mixer. Drinking on a subway is an interesting experience, particularly if you're already buzzed. Forming a wall around each other to screen our activities from innocent bystanders, we alternated taking shots of Andy's soju-cider mix.
It was then that I got up and tried subway surfing in earnest. You've heard of "train-surfing," right? Where you stand on top of a moving train and just ride up there with the breeze in your face (I hear tell some nuts even do it with bullet trains)? Subway surfing is similar, only for obvious reasons you're still inside the car. You just have to stand without touching anything and brace yourself with your legs. It would've been quite tricky on the older Seoul Metro, which lurches and leaps like a drunken jackrabbit. On the Busan subway it's pretty easy...unless you're buzzed. Fortunately I was at the rear of the car and there wasn't much risk of falling on anybody.
We arrived. I'd stupidly neglected to bring a coat, citing my Norse heritage and claiming it would protect me from the chill. There wasn't much chill, but it grew as the night went on: a stiff sea breeze was blowing in which developed into gale force by the time we left the baseball game and lowered the temperature into the 50s, I'd reckon. But none of that mattered. Our excitement grew as we approached the stadium. The red sun was sinking behind it and happy shoppers and sightseers crowded the streets. We were late. We could hear the roars and screams of the excitable crowd, even as we exited the subway hundreds of yards away.
We got separated in the rush to get inside; eventually only Jeff, Darren (the new South African guy), his girlfriend and I made it to the gates. Jeff was clutching a bag with our soju and remaining makgeolli; the guards detained him. Bringing in outside drinks to a baseball game is verboten no matter where you are, we'd known that. But we thought we'd try it anyway. I'd already shown my ticket and entered, so we were stuck with Jeff on one side of the gate and us on the other. Darren and his girlfriend went on ahead; I dithered while Jeff waited for Elaine (with her Miraculous Gigantic Super-Colossal Concealment Special handbag). Then, on a sudden impulse, the imperious cry of a nigh-forgotten ambition, I took off like a shot down the concourse. I'd remembered what I'd wanted to do ever since coming to Korea, and even before: ever since I'd read what Koreans snack on at baseball games. The concourse was wild with people. Vendors were on every side: hot dogs, mandu, ddeokpokki...the smells were bewitching. But I did not find what I sought until I'd gone 50 yards further along, following the curve of the stadium...where was it, where was it? If I didn't get back soon, Jeff and the rest might get through and sit down without me, and without a phone I'd never find them in this anthropic mass.
Ah-ha! I espied it! Flattened, beige-gray body, skin without sheen! Tentacles coiled in death and desiccation, shrunken and twisted! Head held wide by a piece of wood! Yes! I'd found it! DRIED SQUID! Whole dried squid were sitting in a rack beside this one young man's food stall. I jumped up and asked him how much it was.
"Sa-cheon won," he replied.
₩4,000! A bargain! I laid my money down and watched impatiently as the young man got out a small gas burner, lit it, and toasted my squid over the flame. It seemed to take forever; he was very thorough. Then he put it between two pieces of paper and delivered it into my eager hands. I snatched it, muttered a hasty kamsa hamnida and ran back through the throng to the gate whence I'd entered. To my relief I found Adam, Andy, Jeff, Elaine, and Dominic (an Englishman working in Busan, and an acquaintance of Andy's who'd rendezvoused with us at the World Cup Stadium earlier) standing in a circle, talking. Jeff and I stayed to get hot dogs (we were into the classic baseball game food that night) as I commenced to gnawing on my dried squid ferociously, to the amusement and disgust of nearby Koreans. I also sucked down a lot of beer. You can drink freely in the stands at Korean baseball games, and in light of this liberating discovery we all went hog-wild. Jeff and I nabbed a plastic pitcher apiece and accounted for it all during the course of four innings; Adam and Elaine were taking shots of soju behind the stands during their smoke breaks; and the rest were having some mix of the two.
The game was terrific. There were a couple of players who did these really cool things, and...well, yeah. My memory gets a bit blurry from here on out. I remember all of us sliding surreptitiously out of the stadium around the sixth inning or so, when the Lotte Giants were down by eight to the LG Twins (out of Seoul); I remember meeting up with a bunch of drunk Koreans on the way out, including a very friendly soldier whom I swapped hats with (only temporarily, fortunately); I vaguely remember getting the subway back to Haeundae. Then we hit the bars. We went to the Fuzzy Navel, a fine little two-story, wood-trimmed bar with some delicious Mexican-themed snacks. I seem to recall a rather poorly done flare show down behind the bar, and lots of shouted conversation. I met some new people whose names I don't recollect, only inchoate faces and half-imagined snatches of discourse. I consumed an unknown number of beers.
Then we adjourned to Mix, the club across the street, newly opened and without a clientele yet. We went to the VIP room, but it was too quiet, so we headed back down. I remember eating some of Mix's nachos, sitting at the bar and trying to persuade Adam to knock back a tequila slammer with me, and getting down all by my lonesome out on the dance floor. That was embarrassing (Andy filmed me doing it) but not as embarrassing as that yet to come, however.
I'm not sure what persuaded us to go back out into the night, but we did. Across the road, just outside Fuzzy Navel, there was a booth set up, a dart-throwing scam where you got five shots at pink balloons with the possibility of winning some paltry prize or other. The prizes turned out to be fireworks, and Adam turned out to be steady-handed enough to win them. I think he lit his with his cigarette and was standing in the street, firing it, much to the dismay of the booth owner. Trying to top him, I shot mine into the street. Andy got this on film as well. Picture me, marching down the sidewalk with a cavalcade of hooting merry-makers ahead of me, holding myself like the end of ages is at hand, grasping my thin tube of fireworks like a sword or a bundle of fasces, pointing it at the four-lane boulevard and firing off sparklers at the SUVs and sedans streaking by. Thank good fortune itself that I didn't hurt anybody. I'm sure nobody liked seeing sparkling fireballs whizzing by their windshields and doors.
We wandered up and down the streets a while, buying more booze and snacks as we went. We went into a club, but it was too expensive at fifteen grand. Leaving the club and crossing the parking lot, I decided it would be a good idea to take a belly-flop across the trunk of a parked car. I didn't notice the driver was still inside it. He got out and you could almost see the steam coming off him. I mustered my remaining mental and ethical faculties, bowed, apologized, and admitted that I was an idiot (in Korean). The man let his bellicose stare linger on me for a moment longer, blew out a sigh, then walked back to his car, shaking his head and muttering. That, I think, was the closest I've come to being arrested in Korea.
There follows a long, blank, foggy space (sometime during which I relieved myself in an alleyway that was deserted except for the guy on the scooter who fortunately came along too fast to get a good look at what I was doing).
After that there's the casino. We went in and had a look around. I remember it was pretty plush, lots of recessed lighting, soft furnishings, and black marble. Jeff did his level best to stop me donating my money to the one-armed bandit, but I was not to be deterred. I felt lucky. I came out in the red, I think; I spent about fourteen thousand and wound up winning about twenty, if my booze-soaked memory serves. I'm just glad I wasn't so utterly foolish as to try the tables. There were games of poker, blackjack, and hold 'em going on, as well as a few I didn't even recognize. I stopped and stared at three-card draw, but couldn't for the life of me remember the rules. I wanted to set myself down and try my luck, but even I could see that I was in no fit state. Jeff steered me away. We probably spent no more than 30 minutes there; it was a pretty poor set-up now that I think back on it (soberly). The nearest halfway decent gambling to be had is in Macao, I hear, and that is only halfway decent. Saeongjima.
We'd been steadily losing people all night. We'd bumped into a few people at Fuzzy Navel; some had bugged out early from Mix; a few others had likely trailed off during our walk through the windy chill of the spring night. (I was no longer ruing my decision not to wear an extra layer; I was too drunk to feel cold.) By the time we got back to our little love motel, it was just Andy, Adam, Elaine, Dominic, and me. We sat in A & E's expansive room, turned on the Manchester United game and drank soju and mekju until late into the night. We switched on YouTube (A & E's room came with a computer) and put on everybody from Curtis Mayfield to Groove Armada.
I finally left at around 3:30 or so. It wasn't that I was chickening out or anything silly like that. Nope, I was just dog-tired. I couldn't keep my eyes open. I'd been screaming and cheering and stomping and chanting at the Giants game, dancing my shoes off at Mix, and running around the streets of Busan shooting fireworks into traffic and diving across parked cars and whatnot. I bowed out amid good-natured banter and collapsed in my room. A few hours later Jeff came in and followed suit. I found out later that he'd been sent out on a booze run about an hour after I left, and had come back to find everyone passed out. So then he'd gone to the sea (like we'd all talked about doing), in the pitch black of five in the morning, and taken a dip in the freezing water. It was quite an adventure. The water was frigid; he could barely see; and his head was swimming as well as his body. He lost the room key in the water, too. He'd had to dig for it in the wet sand as the waves crashed around and over him. Just when he was about to give up and go back, he'd managed to grab it, sunk deep though it was. That Jeff's a real crazy boy. Only he would consider going to the fanciest beach in Korea in late April, blind drunk, at five o'clock on a Sunday morning and going for a swim. I wish I had half his spirit.
Needless to say, we woke up very late the next day. I woke up soonest, drank some water, and peered owlishly out at the bright day. It was about eleven. After allowing myself a little HRT (Hangover Recovery Time) I went downstairs to inquire about check-out time. I caught the landlord's eye and tapped my watch. He held up ten fingers, then two. Twelve o'clock; we had fifteen minutes. I wandered upstairs, not knowing what to do. I was raised in a country where lodging rules were ironclad. Either you made it out by that time or you paid for another night, no exceptions. In a kind of bleary, half-hearted panic I walked up and down the hallway and banged on the other guys' doors. Andy finally answered his and I filled him in. He'd actually been up for a while. Casting all fears about disturbing other possible patrons of the motel aside, I finally gave up all pretense and yelled in at Adam and Elaine's door that it was go-time.
"ADAM AND ELAINE," I intoned sonorously, "IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, THE TIME IS NOW ELEVEN-FIFTY. CHECK-OUT TIME IS IN TEN MINUTES. WE HAVE TO GO."
There was a brief pause.
"DO YOU WANT ME TO DO MY ONE-MAN BAND IMPERSONATION?"
"Yes," came a muffled Manchester drawl from behind Andy's door.
I had only just begun to warble my best trombone when Adam finally answered his door. Somehow we got our stuff together and wandered out into the streets. The plan permutated a bit, but it remained essentially the same: go to the beach and get a burger. Andy had a tip on a place over at Gwangalli Beach that served up massive foot-tall burgers. That sounded like it would hit the spot after last night, so we went to the subway and rode a few stops, then endured a rather lengthy 500 meter hike to the beach. The day was muted and hazy, with a gentle but chilly breeze blowing. We found the joint and ordered up. They forgot mine. Everybody else munched theirs and huddled under the heat lamp while we made small talk.
After a few hours of watching the waves, the sun, the serpentine kites flying high in the sky and the numerous tents grouped on the sand (there was a fish-catching festival similar to the one I spoke of before going on, with a plethora of tent restaurants in tow), we went back to the subway and traveled to the bus station. It had pretty much been decided yesterday that we weren't going to attempt the ferry again, not after the somewhat tumultuous crossing we'd endured before. I would've been fine ordinarily, but was not willing to tempt fate while hung over. Not that I had any precious lunch to lose, that is. (I'd contented myself with merely writing a civil comment about writing orders down instead of memorizing them at the burger joint rather than complaining; I didn't want to hold up the parade.)
So we got our tickets, went back into the shopping mall that separates the bus station from the street and got some McDonald's (for me), and then headed out. The bus ride was long and agonizing. I used to be ambivalent about buses but now I hate them with all the seething flames of Hell. They're hot, stuffy, bumpy, noisy, uncomfortable, crowded, close, and interminable. That goes double here in Korea. The bus drivers leave the heat on even when it's 60 degrees outside, and they've all got lead feet. Lots of squirrelly stops and starts, never a smooth moment of cruising. Plus they're always swerving into other lanes to go around people they perceive as being too slow, and/or honking at said people. I think the next time I ride a Korean bus I'll seat myself behind the driver and every time he jams on the brakes at a red light or a bus stop I'll pitch forward and land on him. That'll learn him.
And so we arrived in Gohyeon, said our farewells to Andy, and went home. That is the full summary of the weekend's weirdness.
To Adam: Thank you for swigging that tequila slammer.
To Dominic: It was nice to meet you.
To Andy: The very best of luck to you, pal. I hope it was a good send-off.
To that Korean guy in the parked car: I'm sorry. I really am.
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