Affection is like bread, unnoticed till we starve, and then we dream of it, and sing of it, and paint it, when every urchin in the street has more than he can eat. We turn not older with years, but newer every day.
Emily Dickinson
This will probably be my most boring post.
Table of Contents
26 June 2023
- 10:00-10:30 Boemnaegol station to Nopo station metro, 11:00-14:00 Busan Seobu Intercity Bus Terminal to Jeonju Express Bus Terminal bus
- Tourist information center
- 14:30-14:40 Express Bus Terminal stop to Paldallo art hall stop bus number 5001
- Lunch at Jeonju Waengi bean sprout and rice soup restaurant
- Omokdae viewpoint
- Jaman mural village
Farewell to Busan
I ate breakfast alone in the common area today. Plain rice. I’d run out of groceries.
Everyone was fast asleep.
When the time came to leave Busan, I entered the volunteers’ dormitory to say goodbye to Horizon.
She’d set an alarm for my departure, but in her fatigue, she could barely utter a syllable. With a sore throat and bloodshot eyes, she let out a few words, as we hugged again and again.
“I love you,” we told each other, “I miss you.”
“I’ll see you again in Seoul, in Japan, in Israel,” she said.
“All of them,” I replied. I haven’t experienced such a bond with an Israeli person on this trip.
I added one last thing before leaving the dorm.
“I know guys,” I said, recalling her doubts about her Korean date. “Doesn’t matter if they’re into a penis or a pair of tits. They’re all the same. He’s not.”
“You think so?”
“I know.”
“He told me he would see you again someday,” she said. “He really wanted to say goodbye.”
The fact that he’d promised this after merely one night with me spoke volumes. I was happy for her. But I was also jealous.
Sometimes, I really wished I was born lesbian.
I wrote a goodbye note to the staff and left it at reception, because they were asleep, too.
Finally, I left the hostel.
In the past few months, I’d been writing a lot about sad goodbyes. This one clouded them all.
It was farewell from multiple friends at once. From nigh a home. One month didn’t sound that long, but in travel terms, it was forever.
It had marked a departure from my fast travel. From moving everyday, sightseeing nonstop, and eating convenience store food, to cooking for myself, hanging out in the common area with friends, and leaving a big city without managing to tick off as many attractions as I would’ve liked to.
My month in Busan had involved some highs and lows. The latter probably more than the former. For better or worse, this period was valuable and memorable.
Sadly, I managed to say goodbye to almost everyone, apart from C.H., Cosima, and the new Italian volunteer.
Busan was still raining nonstop. Every day from now, all over Korea, would be like this. At least the weather echoed my mood.
Jeon-Ju Hanok Village
I took the intercity bus to Jeonju and stopped by the terminal’s tourist information center. Chica texted me. She’d met in her dormitory Korean number 3.
Straight people, especially attractive ones, could meet someone new on a daily basis, and immediately hit it off. What a bizarre thought.
But no matter. My accommodation for tonight: a hanok stay at the heart of Jeonju’s hanok village, the largest one in Korea.
It was a traditional wooden house in the middle of the hanok village, right on the main street. Yet the area was so tranquil and calm, that there was no noise.
To by surprise, buses in Jeonju had real time bus stop information on screens, both in Korean and in English.
The village’s tourist information center helped me more than the terminal’s in drawing up a full itinerary for my time in Jeonju. Apparently, many places in the village were closed on Monday. But I had three days here.
As it quickly became clear to me, one did not need three days here.
So, with the free time on my hands, I looked for a restaurant first. The tourist information center sent me to try one of the bean sprout and rice soup street, one of Jeonju’s local specialties.
“Spicy? No spicy?” the staff at one restaurant asked me.
I laughed. “No spicy juseyo.”
They served me the dish without me even ordering it. It was the obvious choice for any diner here.
The raw egg that was included as a side dish, I didn’t know what to do with. Inserting it to the hot soup for it too cook might’ve been the wrong choice.
I strolled around the charming village, beholding tourists clad in hanbok. At PnB bakery, I ate the original choco pie, an unbelievably delicious chocolate pastry filled with some kind of a jam.
A five-minute walk took me up to a viewpoint over the village. It seemed a bit lame.
It was raining nonstop. At the very least, this made wandering around the village with ample time quite atmospheric. I was alone most of the time, left to wonder why there weren’t more tourists here in Korea’s prime hanok village.
I walked to the Confucian school. It was closed. So I crossed small, empty streets, missing my friends from the hostel.
After covering the entire village by foot, I realised that two days here were way more than enough. And to think I’d almost come for five.
At 17:00, I decided to call it a night.
My First Hanok Stay
I had a quiet evening in my hanok room. It was a tiny room in a tiny accommodation –around three square meters – and the few guests did not socialise (even though I tried talking to an elderly Japanese man). As always, I ended up going to bed the paper thin “mattress” on the floor late.
Today’s highlights: bean sprout and rice soup; choco pie; the rainy and vacant village; sleeping in a hanok.
27 June 2023
- Omokdae viewpoint
- Jeonju Hyanggyo Confucian school
- Jeondong Catholic church
- Gyeonggijeon shrine
- Lunch at Jongno Hoegwan
- Pungnammun gate (under renovations)
- Jeolla Gamyeong historical place (former government building)
- Nambu market
- 17:10-17:20 CTS Jeonbuk Broadcasting stop to Deokjin Park bus number doesn’t matter plenty of lines go there
- Deokjin Park (1h)
- 18:45-18:55 Doekjin Park stop to arts center stop bus number doesn’t matter plenty of lines go there
A hot, sunny day.
At least it wasn’t raining. I woke early, due to unmissable bread, egg, and fresh fruit breakfast being served at 8:00.
My hostel for the next two nights was a ten minute walk away. The closest hostel to the hanok village. The owner was an extremely nice middle-aged Korean man, who had converted his father’s home into a guesthouse. So it wasn’t big or anything like the one in Busan. One floor for guests, another floor for him and his wife.
Having arrived in the late morning, while two guests were still eating breakfast, the owner asked me if I wanted to eat as well, even though breakfast was normally served the morning after your first night at an accommodation. Regardless, I was full from the breakfast at my hanok stay.
Jeon-Ju Hanok Village… Again
After checking in, I wandered around the village again, returning to some of yesterday’s spots for better pictures (sunny weather), as well as to some of the closed attractions.
Jeonju Hyanggyo Confucian school was just old Koreans. I struggled to communicate with anyone. I saw people writing calligraphy with brushes, but couldn’t really find a way to join them.
I browsed the few shops around the village in search of a monk-hanbok. No luck.
At the shrine and portrait museum complex, I discovered that the museum was under renovations. The tourist information center hadn’t mentioned that. Odd.
(Also under renovations: the wine musem and kimchi museum.)
A copy of the only portrait from the Joseon period of King Taejo, the founder of the Joseon dynasty, hung inside the shrine.
It was ok. Nothing there spoke to me much. Legs weak with hunger – so weak, all of a sudden, that I regretted passing on that second breakfast – I left, and went across the street to a famous traditional bibimbap restaurant.
It was the best bibimbap I’d had. My mouth was on fire the entire time. It was worth it.
The side dishes included kimchi, a potato salad, seaweed, kimchijeon, and my first encounter with acorn jelly, which, despite the resemblance, wasn’t foie gras.
After visiting the third tourist information center of the hanok village, I decided to skip the free tours, which the previous center had recommended me to join. One was about the shrine I had just visited. The other, the timing didn’t work.
So I crossed the street to visit Jeondong cathedral: the site of the first martyrdom in Korea. Both Byzantine and Romanesque in style, with red and gray bricks. It didn’t hold a candle to churches in Europe, though, in my opinion. Yet the sight of Korean nuns was bizarre enough to make this visit worthwhile.
Entrance was allowed only to those coming to pray. So I left yet another attraction after a few minutes, glimpsing a marble copy of Michelangelo’s Pieta on my way out.
Next, I continued to Jeolla Gamyeong historical place (former government building). Basically, another rest pavilion. Korea was one giant rest pavilion. They were everywhere.
This was the kind of historical buildings I’d been seeing here. As frequent as shrines in Japan. Neither shrines nor pavilions had much to offer. At least most of them. I didn’t join the free tour here, either.
Nambu Market
I hit the market instead.
It was just like any other one in Korea. Not very big, not very lively. I was about to exit, when I saw it. Hanbok shops.
Some had the same minimal selection (3-4 colors) as in Seoul, only for a higher price. Then I found a shop with the most colors I’d seen in Korea, as well as my first sight of the women’s version.
Needless to say, it was THE place to buy a monk-hanbok (can I coin the term “hanmonk”?). I tried on a pastel purple one and a white one in medium size, which fit me perfectly. Turned out my blue hanbok was extra large.
The two colors were out of my budget. I’d intended to buy another pair in Gwanjang Market in Seoul, for the same price as my blue one; not two for a more expensive price in Jeonju.
Still, I couldn’t pass on those colors, and, knowing I would probably not find them again, I haggled again and again, putting my hands together and repeating “juseyo” (please in Korean), until they lowered the price twice.
I ran to a convenience store for cash (no market accepted credit cards or issued receipts) and left elated with a bag full of hanboks.
As I walked around the market and streets, I saw locals wearing outfits similar to mine. My style of hanbok, usually favored by monks, wasn’t the only style in this country for the summer. I supposed it was no wonder that the only place I’d seen this form of wear out in the wild in Korea was the city with the biggest hanok village.
Having finished everything on my list for the village, I walked back to rest in my hostel. The weather was that hot.
There was a twentysomething Caucasian girl there, who sat down with a book in front of me in the common area. I greeted her. She barely issued a word in return.
At least the owner said the hanboks I got were good quality and for a good price.
Deokjin Park
After cooling down and regaining my strength, I took the bus to my final destination in Jeonju: a lotus pond.
It was the first time in Jeonju when my eye popped. The lotus pond was enormous, and the flowers on the verge of blooming. The rest pavilion was wooden and beautiful. The breeze made the cloudy weather pleasant, and simply sitting in the pavilion and listening to the birds felt magnificent.
An old lady was napping on a mattress. I couldn’t understand why I was the only foreigner there.
I strolled around the park on my way back, stumbling upon a traditional Korean swing, which was basically a gargantuan version of its western equivalent.
Back in the hostel, I had instant noodles for dinner. The girl from today ate alone without saying a word. I found this behavior a bit antisocial and strange, especially after a month at a hostel where the guests all made friends. I recalled the German-Kiwi-Australian woman from my hostel in Jeju, and how she’d encountered people like this in previous hostels, who’d kept to themselves and avoided all conversation. Then I recalled the Israeli guest from my last night in Busan, who was extremely talkative, and tried to make friends in an instant, having spent several lonely weeks in Korea.
A redhead Scottish girl checked in. We immediately struck up a conversation. She’d come from Gyeongju, where she’d stayed at the same temple as me.
Chatting with her was so instant and easy, that the quiet girl soon joined us. She was Dutch, also in this country for three months. The three of us talked for a while, but at 21:00, exhausted from the last two nights, I excused myself, and went to bed.
Today’s higlights: Jeonju bibimbap; finally finding good hanboks for sale; the lotus pond; the Korean swing.
28 June 2023
- Waffle bibimbap at Jaman mural village
- Cold soybean noodles at a random restaurant
- 18:40-18:55 CTS broadcasting stop to Korean traditional performing arts stop stop bus number 355 (plenty of lines go there)
- Traditional Korean music concert at a theatre in Jeonju
- 21:00-21:10 Korean traditional performing arts stop to Korea exchange bank stop bus number 355
It had been raining nonstop since last night. Not a good time to hike a mountain.
In mid-April, during my second visit to Matsumoto, I’d met a Korean family from Jeonju, who had told me about Mai-san. This beautiful mountain had been on my radar ever since. Yesterday, after spulrging on hanboks, I’d scrapped my going there, due to budget. But now the bad weather absolved me of FOMO and guilt.
I ate breakfast at the hostel with the Scottish girl and a German guy. The former left to Seoul right after.
Since the latter and I had no plans for today, the owner of the hostel gifted us his tickets to a traditional Korean concert this evening right in front of Deokjin Park. (The owner couldn’t attend it, because he’d broken his leg.) This gave us both something to look forward to.
Neither the German nor the Dutch guests seemed eager to do something together, though, and for once, it didn’t bother me. I needed the time to run errands I’d been postponing over and over again. Thus, I spent the rest of the morning organizing my suitcase, now bursting with the addition of my new hanboks.
Jaman Mural Village
In the afternoon, I crossed the hanok village again (way livelier today, for some reason) and returned to the mural village, since it was the only place in Korea that sold another local specialty: waffle bibimbap.
The village was still deserted for some reason. I did spot a couple of locals tending to their front yard. But I sat alone at the restaurant, risking bites of pork for this rare meal.
Sad piano music was playing. The village was so quiet, that I’d heard it before even finding the restaurant. It gave me déjà vu to various moments like this in Japan.
I recalled sitting alone at a cafe in Himeji and having an almond au lait and an almond butter toast for breakfast while listening to the same genre of music. Himeji had also surprised me with its many delicious local specialties.
The restaurant featured painted walls and colorful paintings, shelves with figurines and Pokémon plushies. It was the perfect hidden gem, and when my waffle arrived, after the owner had cooked it for my on the spot, I saw pork, all right, but very little of it. When I bit into it, I disliked the flavor. But when I didn’t, the waffle became one of the most delicious things I’d had the pleasure of eating in Korea.
This waffle, Jeonju bibimbap, PnB choco pie, Jeju abalone, those pastries at Seogwipo market, kkulppang, ssiat hotteok, yakgwa, pajeon, kimchijeon, and even kimchi (particularly the cucumber kimchi from my restaurant in Busan); I would miss them all.
Apart from abalone, the dishes I liked the most in Korea were vegetarian.
I felt a little bad for eating meat. I was betraying my values. Yet as I was chewing it, I wondered: what difference did it make? If the world wasn’t willing to give up on it, did this one waffle really matter?
I recalled Saturday night, when I’d sat on the street with Q at 3:00 and cried about all my frustrations with straight culture. If people behaved in the same way over and over again, why did I keep hoping for something different?
People were the same, at the end of the day, just as I’d told Horizon; it didn’t matter what organ they sought. And the friends I’d made on this trip – some had already been ignoring me.
The waffle only left me hungrier, and, after debating with my wallet, I caved into the temptation to try another unique dish, this time recommended to me by the German foodie from the Busan hostel: buckwheat noodles with salt and sugar in cold soybean sauce. I walked to the restaurant, checking out the famous Jeollabuko 100 souvenir shop on the way.
I couldn’t finish it, however, growing rarely full.
Traditional Korean Concert
Barely able to walk, I returned to the hostel, and invited the Dutch girl to join the German guy and me to the concert.
“I hate Korean buses,” she said. Buses here were always a bumpy ride.
I chuckled. “Free rollercoaster.”
Upon entering the building the ticket office, the staff immediately realized who we were (the owner had phoned them earlier to arrange the tickets for us), without us needing to explain anything.
“What are the odds of three foreigners walking in and not being the ones in question…” I muttered to the German guy.
Our seats were close to the stage, right in the center. We weren’t simply the only foreigners in the audience, but also the only non-middle-aged.
The performers were:
- A stage full of men clad in elaborate crimson hanboks; black hats with a net for a wide brim, and a golden-lined, box-shaped top.
- Women wearing canary yellow tops and blue skirts, playing strings on a guitar-shaped long, wooden beam, whose tips they placed on each other’s skirts (sprawled on the floor because they were sitting crossed-legged).
- A woman singing while a man was beating a drum.
- Women in colorful hanboks and golden hairpieces dancing while moving colorful, striped sleeves that reached their ankles.
- Combination of the previous performances.
- All the men from 1 and women from 2 playing at once.
- Those fluffy flower-hat kids with drums, like in Korean festivals.
Sometimes the audience yelled things to cheer the players or express their agreement. Never seen a behavior like this at a theatre.
Per my suggestion, we stopped by Daiso afterwards, and got the owner chocolate almonds, green tea, and a thank you note, which the Dutch girl wrote in choppy Korean. He was taken aback by this gesture (and slightly resisted it). But we couldn’t come back from the show empty-handed.
After a bumpy, month-long ride in Busan, my last three days were unhurried and low-key. I wasn’t used to having so much free time; not since Hiroshima, in late March, had I spent too many nights at a place. This was a welcome change, though. In Jeonju, there wasn’t any pressure of socializing and risking rejection. I could enjoy the silence, listen to classical music, and relax.
The latter point was especially important, seeing that tomorrow, I would return to Seoul, and dedicate the next three days (and nights) to Pride weekend.
After partying in Shinjuku during Tokyo Pride, I resolved to make Seoul Pride just as memorable. Little did I know, my return to Seoul would mark a departure from my time in Busan.
Today’s highlights: bibimbap waffle; cold soybean noodles; watching traditional a Korean concert.
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