As I walked out of arrivals at Busan Port International Passenger Terminal an aging, blue Hyundai bus sat idling by the side of the pavement. Slightly disoriented at having switched countries, I boarded and looked at the female driver questioningly. She gestured to a clear plastic box next to the driver's cab where the fare is deposited, "1000 won" (around 60p) clearly marked on it.
The bus pulled away and into Busan's traffic, as busy as you might expect for a 4-million-strong city, Korea's second largest. After ten minutes or so I got off at Busan Station, where I transferred to the metro. I bought a ticket using the touchscreen built into the military green machine, the colour matching a number of soldiers standing nearby waiting to take the same train as I was. Cheerful classical string music played over the station speakers to let everyone know that the train is approaching. I peered over the head of the ajumma (middle aged women), who seemed to be the metro's main customers, at least on this particular Monday afternoon, and tried to keep my backpack out of the way.
In the neighbourhood around Kyungsung University, a scruffy, highly developed area full of bars and restaurants that give it an appearance approaching a cross between Osaka and Bangkok, I found a hostel. I was lucky enough to be invited out to eat with two fellow British travellers, and we headed to the Gwang-an beach area for a Korean barbecue, pork that is grilled in front of you on the table while you mix the plethora of side dishes: lettuce, onion, chili, cold soup and of course the ubiquitous spicy kimchi.
Outside, neon lights glowed in the rounded, neat hangeul script. Air conditioning blasted out of squeaky-clean mobile phone and clothes shops, as did loud pop music. The world famous Psy appeared everywhere, on advertising posters and on socks in souvenir shops.
We went to the beach and people watched for a while, the long Gwang-an bridge framing the night landscape between the tall buildings to the north and south. A man sat under a tent reading by the light of a lantern as children fired toy helicopters into the air, flashing in various luminous colours as they floated to earth. It felt good to be back in Korea.
The bus pulled away and into Busan's traffic, as busy as you might expect for a 4-million-strong city, Korea's second largest. After ten minutes or so I got off at Busan Station, where I transferred to the metro. I bought a ticket using the touchscreen built into the military green machine, the colour matching a number of soldiers standing nearby waiting to take the same train as I was. Cheerful classical string music played over the station speakers to let everyone know that the train is approaching. I peered over the head of the ajumma (middle aged women), who seemed to be the metro's main customers, at least on this particular Monday afternoon, and tried to keep my backpack out of the way.
In the neighbourhood around Kyungsung University, a scruffy, highly developed area full of bars and restaurants that give it an appearance approaching a cross between Osaka and Bangkok, I found a hostel. I was lucky enough to be invited out to eat with two fellow British travellers, and we headed to the Gwang-an beach area for a Korean barbecue, pork that is grilled in front of you on the table while you mix the plethora of side dishes: lettuce, onion, chili, cold soup and of course the ubiquitous spicy kimchi.
Outside, neon lights glowed in the rounded, neat hangeul script. Air conditioning blasted out of squeaky-clean mobile phone and clothes shops, as did loud pop music. The world famous Psy appeared everywhere, on advertising posters and on socks in souvenir shops.
We went to the beach and people watched for a while, the long Gwang-an bridge framing the night landscape between the tall buildings to the north and south. A man sat under a tent reading by the light of a lantern as children fired toy helicopters into the air, flashing in various luminous colours as they floated to earth. It felt good to be back in Korea.
