After meeting up outside the shady chicken place (which re-fries its chicken I don't know how many times; it's run by a leather-faced lady who's openly suspicious of foreigners) at 7:00, we hailed a cab, waltzed into the bus station, secured tickets for the Busan Express, and then spent the next two and a half hours stuffed into a cramped, airless, hot, lurching sardine can. The bus ride was only ₩13,000 and that STILL wasn't worth it. I resolved, stepping out of that torture chamber, never to set foot on another intercity bus as long as I lived, at least one without the benefit of opening windows. We stopped off at McDonald's (I was too queasy to get anything), then headed into the subway. We resolved not to waste time traveling across the city and back to Haeundae to get our rooms immediately; we'd explore a little, dump our stuff off, and then go shooting and drinking around dinnertime.
For the early afternoon, however, we elected to hit up Jagalchi, the massive Busan fish market spread over half the harbor. I was elated; it was on my to-do list but I thought I'd never get the time to see it over all the other stuff I wanted to get done. Now was our chance, and we took full advantage of it. The market was a bit gloomy under the overcast skies and the air was admittedly odoriferous, but the profusion of sea life was intoxicating nonetheless. Jagged rows of stalls and booths, overhung with shabby tarps and gaudy-colored umbrellas, sprawled in every direction. Everywhere we looked, there were vendors frying unidentifiable foods; enormous fish laid out on trays of ice, white underbellies gleaming invitingly; squid and octopus draped over crates and planks, tentacles dangling; and utterly amorphous chunks of sliced seafood and entrails stacked in heaps. One fellow we passed was shaving rinds from one such block (it was shark, we discovered) and handing them out as free samples to the crowd, inviting them to sit down and try a full dish for only man won (₩10,000).
Off the streets the sights and scents didn't diminish. If anything, they increased. We passed into one of the gigantic warehouse-esque buildings that thrust itself out of the center of the open-air market; it was likewise filled with vendors, immaculate in yellow and pink rubber aprons and gloves, surrounded by glass and plastic tanks of their wares, oxygen bubbles concealing their slimy, piscine contents. Unable to restrain myself at the sight of a live octopus the size of my head, squirming its way around its submerged colander (and the insistent urgings of its owner) I caved and ordered sannakji once again. In five minutes (and ten thousand won) a majestically writhing pile of tentacles, seasoned with sesame oil and sliced onions, was brought to our table. I partook with gusto, having regained the appetite I lost on the lurching bus journey. Even Adam and Jeff pitched in a bit. This was real sannakji; I could feel it sucking on to my cheeks, tongue, teeth and gums, its suckers like little tiny hooks. I devoured the plate, thanked the proprietor and moved on.
Two warehouses down I was overcome with a burst of gluttony once again; I ordered a couple of strings of giant abalone for fifteen thousand (about twelve bucks), and munched them raw as we sauntered out of the fish market and into the souvenir market and tourist mall beyond. It would have been better with ssamjang, but I was content to slurp the shellfish down as they were. I had to leave the last two, though; I got full. I felt bad, forking over money only to waste it and some fisherman's hard work. I couldn't have saved them, though...they were already beginning to turn in the hot sun. I'll know better next time.
I washed my hands in yet another McDonald's (Adam, Elaine and Jeff hit that place at least five times in three days), and then we headed out into the souvenir market. We wandered here and there, looking in the shops, the clothing stalls, the tiny seamstresses' cubbyholes, the western clothing chains, the fast food joints, and the actual souvenir boutiques themselves. We stopped at one (real tourist trap) and I purchased a Korean fan for my mother and an emblazoned business card box for my father. It may have been a tourist-trap shop, but I think Mum 'n' Dad will appreciate the gifts nonetheless. We also stopped off at Krispy Kreme Doughnuts and polished off a box of a dozen between the four of us. They were nice, but blander than I recall (I haven't had a doughnut in a year, remember). It would have been better with some milk. If I hadn't been so fixated on getting some chocolate in my system, I might have had the courage to try one of the oddball Korean doughnuts with green tea icing.
Done with Jagalchi and the markets, we headed back to the subway, rode thirty minutes to Haeundae, checked into our usual love motel (wonderfully inexpensive at ₩35,000 per night, or about $28), relaxed at the beach for a bit, and...well, it was at the beach that the real surprise of the whole weekend came, one that totally made my month. Adam and Jeff slid off to get drinks (non-alcoholic; we weren't going to drink before shooting, no way). I should've known they were up to something, 'cause it took them a long time...long enough to be lost. Elaine went on the cell phone and directed them to our location on the boardwalk. The first I knew that they had, all three of them, tricked me, was when the Papa John's large pepperoni pizza with a side order of cheese sticks plopped down on the grass behind me. It was a plot. Adam and Jeff had sneaked away on a prearranged scheme, and Elaine had stealthily covered for them over the phone, like a seasoned black ops pro. I had not the slightest inkling of their intentions. I was struck speechless. For a moment my mind would not even comprehend what I was seeing, as my brain tried to force my body and face into expressions of nonchalance. It didn't work. Soon as my teeth sank into that first cheese stick, I was gone. I poured out disjointed words of gratitude, not nearly enough, while I chewed and swallowed. I will never be able to thank those three enough for ending my deprivation. Having stood my complaints about the lack of Papa John's in Korea all year, my three friends had graciously, thoughtfully, generously, wonderfully concocted this covert operation and carried it off without a hitch. That alone made it the best send-off ever. I am truly blessed with true companions (and pizza, munch munch munch).
Anyway, we carried the leftovers (what little there were) back to the hotel, showered, changed, and then boarded the subway for Seomyeon and the center of town. We wandered around a little, taking in the sights and smells of this new corner of the city (only Jeff had ever been here before). The streets were narrower, the buildings somewhat dingier, but the streets were lively and full of all sorts of people, and the sidewalks were jammed with tiny shops and food vendors giving off delicious odors.
We wandered about for a time until Jeff's nose kicked in and we discovered the Seomyeon Gun Club, tucked away on the second floor of a glass-fronted building at a small three-way intersection. We ascended the steep, dark staircase and received an effusive greeting from a young, thickset Korean fellow in glasses.
"Shooting?" he asked. "Come this way!"
The waiting room resembled my family doctor's, only with more toy guns. It was sparsely decorated, but the couches were soft and the small coffee tables arranged pleasantly. There was a long, L-shaped counter at one side of the room, on which a pleasant-looking, skinny woman leaned and smiled at us. There were some empty water-cooler bottles lying about. The targets of previous shooters, pocked with bullet holes, were hung on the walls. A few copies of American gun magazines were on the tables and couches. One entire wall of the room, however, was taken up with an enormous color poster with photographs of the available firearms, their names, and for the most part their calibers as well. The jovial, thickset proprietor directed our attention to this and then stood by eagerly with a notepad and pen.
Elaine and Jeff were a little nervous (it was their first time shooting real guns), but I did my best to put their minds at ease. I selected weapons and calibers that I thought would be best suited to their tastes, which our host jotted down on his notepad. Selections completed, he ushered us through a door and into the actual range itself, which resembled any indoor range in the States: booths with targets set up on lines. From a gun cabinet at the rear the man produced our weapons and ammunition. I was first. The proprietor had me demonstrate checking the gun for cartridges, and then had me dry-fire. Satisfied, he let me go ahead. I originally opted for the Desert Eagle; but they didn't have it. I was going to go for a .44 Magnum next...but they didn't have that, either. So I went with the .357 Mag. That was a fun little number, and made quite a bang.
In the next booth, the man was attempting to explain to Jeff how to use the sights and so forth, but his English was not up to the task. So after I was finished, the man brought me over and asked me to explain. I told Jeff the rudiments of using handgun sights, and then Jeff went ahead with shooting, steady as a rock. We had ear protection but not eye protection, which turned out to be a bit hard on Jeff, because he was in the last booth down and the shell casings ejected from his nine-millimeter Beretta kept bouncing off the wall and came close to hitting him. One actually did smack him on the tip of his nose. Jeff finished all of his rounds, however, and scored 74%, which I can assure you is excellent for a first-timer. (Most people can't even hit the target at all.)
Elaine and Adam were next. Elaine was using a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver. The proprietor asked me to show her how to cock it. I did, and Elaine just took over from there. She was phenomenal. Her aim was steady, her form was flawless and her scores reflected it: 82 percent. She even got two rounds through the same hole, Robin Hood style. She said herself that after the initial shock of the first round going off, she settled right down and got into it. I think she had fun, to say the least.
Poor Adam was in a bit of difficulty, which was all my fault. I'd picked a .45 Colt for him, but the stupid thing kept jamming, so the Korean proprietor had swapped it out for a different forty-five semiauto. It fired better, but still kept jamming. Also, the kickback gave Adam some problems...forty-five slugs are heavy buggers. Nonetheless Adam's hand was steady. He jerked the trigger a bit at the outset but once he started squeezing his aim improved considerably, and he scored 75%. He enjoyed it, he said...he even grabbed two of the Magnum revolvers and posed for a picture with them, reminiscent of Clint Eastwood on the movie poster for The Outlaw Josey Wales. Matter of fact, we all grabbed a gun (Elaine with a .44 Mag, Jeff with a Walther, and myself with my trusty nine-millimeter Beretta) and posed for a gunslinger-style shot.
The proprietor tallied up our scores, rolled up our precious targets with holes rendered by our own hands, and bowed us out of the shop. My .44 cost ₩50,000 to shoot; Elaine's revolver and Jeff's automatic, ₩40,000 apiece; and Adam's .45 was another fifty grand, I'm reasonably certain, total cost therefore being ₩180,000. Expensive though it may be, nothing replaces the thrill of shooting, particularly since I'd been separated from it for so long. Adam enjoyed it, Jeff is coming around and Elaine, I think, is hooked. I'll have to open up the gun cabinets for all of 'em when they come visit me in the States...
Then we went drinking. The place still had the sign over the door reading Dojima; but it's since been changed, if Lonely Planet is to be believed, to the Barony Brauhaus. (German-themed drinking establishments are quite popular in Korea; there's a couple on this island, even.) We opted for the all-you-can-drink option, knowing we were in it for the long haul, and then sat through the next four hours sipping beer. I say "sipping" because the glasses that we were given didn't really lend themselves to chugging. They were much smaller than even the standard beer mugs we get at the Local in Gohyeon. Skinnier, too. Now that I think back on it, such tableware is probably insurance. They know people can and will go hog-wild with this liquid buffet, so they serve it up piecemeal, in very small increments. We arrogantly thought, as the dutiful waiter shuffled back and forth to our table every five minutes, that we'd tire him out with our pace and force him into granting us more capacious drinking vessels...but no such luck.
The atmosphere in Dojima (or whatever) is fine; recessed lighting, dark wood furnishings, and a decent view of the city streets out one wall of windows. The establishment also boasts something known as "the Beerzooka," a plastic tube about six feet high and graduated with measurement markings; large parties can order "one foot" or "two feet" or the whole "six feet" of beer and spend the rest of the evening slowly lowering the levels from a tap at the contraptions base. It was more economical for us to take the option we did, but had we been pressed for time or not so hard up for cash we probably would've tried it. "Beerzooka," indeed...the name still makes me chuckle. Who thinks up this stuff anyway?
Well, we were in fine shape when we departed. I'm afraid I don't remember what the bill was but it must have been just, for no fights broke out over it. (We've had our fill of fights over drinking bills; did I tell you about the street fight we got into yet?) We caught the subway over to Sinchon, the swingin' university district. We danced our shoes off at a couple of clubs, most notably Vinyl Underground, famous throughout Korea. The staff was fluent in English, there was no cover charge, drinks were plentiful and the music wasn't half bad. I was up on the stage quite a bit, too. (Insert embarrassed grin here.) After this, we got some Turkish food at a stall outside, then got a cab back to Haeundae. I was dead beat. I opted out of Adam and Elaine's plans to sit on the beach awhile with some more beer and snacks, and collapsed into bed.
There remains yet little to tell. I woke up with a pretty decent hangover, but a couple of ibuprofen tablets, a liter of water and an hour in a dark room got me out of it cleanly. We recovered, freshened up, paid the bill and went out and sat on the beach. It was a gray, overcast sort of day, as it unfortunately always is whenever we go to Haeundae Beach to swim. Meteorological racism, that's what it is. Those darn Korean clouds won't let any sunshine fall on non-Koreans at the beach. After a brief splodge (Geordie lingo for "wade"), we discoursed about our plans. A, E, and J were all for sticking around in Busan to go see Terminator: Salvation. I wasn't too keen on it; I was still a bit beat, and wanted to have a bit of time at home to relax...plus I didn't want to take the bus back, no matter if my good friends were on it. I'd beaten my hangover but there was no sense in tempting fate. So we split up on the subway at Seomyeon; I rode to the coastal ferry terminal and caught the Pegasus for Gohyeon (₩21,500), while my three cohorts rode on and saw the movie. I spent the rest of that Sunday on my bed, chillaxin'.
And that was the last weekend in Busan.
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