I got up early (for me) Saturday morning, and headed to Dunkin' Donuts for an ever- so-healthy breakfast of donuts and coffee. As I took a seat, a noisy group of men in blue uniforms came in. They were all rather young and fresh looking, and at first I thought they were military; Busan is a naval port also. Upon closer examination of their uniforms, however, I discovered that these young men were actually policemen. Tall and skinny Korean policemen, but policement nevertheless. In a donut shop. Apparently, it is universal.
Their youth was explained later to me by the posters that boasted, "new police, new start - Dynamic Busan." One of them kept staring at me and nudging his neighbors. I smiled at him and made eye contact; he nervously smiled back, then looked down with a slight flush on his acne-mottled cheeks. It was very endearing, but also pointed to this new force's inexperience.
I heade towards the beach, a soft, cool, mist cloaking the water in a curtain of grey. The threat of rain hung in the air, and a heavy fog began to trickle down. The beach was all but deserted. A softly rounded ajuma meditated quietly. A slender middle-aged woman in a pink sweater dandered along the surf, pausing in reflection from time to time. She looked weary, but not sad. A couple of businessmen sat on the sand, careless of their expensive suits.
These men fascinated me. They were in perfect harmony with each other, in the way that only a long friendship or marriage can bring. They spoke to each other little, but when they did, their tones were warm and nurturing. They grasped each others hands, and slapped each others knees with occasional mirth. They then quieted down, sitting in silent communion with their arms around each others shoulders - a perfect David with his Jonathan.
I wandered north on the boardwalk to see if I could find the "Little Mermaid" statue. It is only mentioned briefly in my guide, and as far as I know, nowhere else. I have always loved this story of unrequited love, so I had to see the Korean version. Copenhagen, Denmark also has a famous mermaid statue in honor of the author of the story. Actually, the guide said the statue was south of the beach "below the cliffs," but I got turned around and headed north by accident. It turned out to be a pleasant, if unintended, detour.
The legend of ancient times tells the heartbroken love story of the Princess of Topaz. The Princess of Topaz was from the "Naranda: country, a country of mermaid, and married the King of Favor from the Mukungnara. She sheds tears of longing for her kingdom, reflected in topaz on each night of the full moon.
As I got closer and closer to the end of the sand, the few people on the beach thinned out. I began moving quicker when a group of noisy school children came to the edge of the water. I watched them and took photos for awhile, then moved on. I passed empty restaurants and kiosks, their owners hopefully glancing at me as I passed. It was lightly sprinkling, and a man "tsk tsk"ed me for not having an umbrella.
I came to a narrow winding street that twisted up from the boardwalk. I held my breath as I passed an area which apparently served as a fish-cleaning station. Idle fishing boats were parked Korean-style, that is, haphazardly, in a small inlet. Some of them were quite derilict, while others seemed more serviceable. I turned back, and meandered my way back to the beach.
Not having forgotten my original purpose, I stopped in an incredibly cheesy tourist shop to get directions. The lady spoke no English, but I bought Andy's joke gift with a grin, followed by some hysterical laughter. The lady looked like she was about to call the police, so I quickly paid and left. She gave me free postcard, I think to ensure I didn't come back.
The information office turned out to be on the other side of the shop, so I went there. The place I wanted to go, Donbaek Island, was closed to tourists because of the APEC summit, but, I was told, if I went with just a camera, they might just let me in. The kind ladies gave me directions to a department store with lockers, but when I got there, no lockers. I decided to try my luck with the guards, so I took a taxi up the hill to the fancy Westin Chosun Hotel on the island.
The island is actually not an island anymore; it was filled in by a land bridge several centuries ago. The guards let me go in the park surprisingly, but only on the outskirts of the island. Men (possibly snipers) in camoflauge squatted in the bushes, their beady eyes glaring out at the families enjoying the summer day. More obvious guards stood at attention around all the important monuments, not allowing people to go down the stairs to get to the rocks and cliffs, or the monuments, for that matter. Hearbreakingly, the Princess of Topaz Mermaid Statue was closed to visitors. It could be seen from a distance, but only just.
I saw the fancy hotel from the other side of the statue, and was struck with inspiration. The hotel property met the beach, so if I went back down to the beach, I could climb up the other way! I finished my tour of the island, and strolled back down to the beach. Sure enough, there was a steep stairway, really a bunch of rocks, with a handrail leading up to the top of the cliffs behind the princess. Maybe I could get a closer shot at the Princess of Topaz. I covered my grungy tourist gear with my nice leather jacket, brushed my hair, and put on my most important stroll. I casually meandered through the hotel property and private to the stairway, and no one stopped me, the "Mission Impossible" theme running through my head... I scrambled up the naturally-made stairs to the top of the cliff, meeting two ajumas selling water along the way. They looked up hopefully at me, but I kept going. Finally, I reached a lookout point, two noisy women chattering on the bench. I peered down, and there she was.
She was very large and beautifully rendered. The artist had taken time to naturally sculpt every scale and angle perfectly. Her face held an expression of deep longing as she gazed into her ball. She blended naturally into the rocks, almost invisible, but for the slightly greenish cast of the bronze. She belonged there, a part of the sea and spray.
Another precarious stairway of rocks led down towards her, so I began clambering down. About halfway down, however, I paused. The Princess of Topaz was not in mourning alone. A well-dressed man in a grey business suit stood on the rocks at her feet, looking out to sea. In his hand, he held a bright bouquet of wedding flowers. His companion, also in a business suit, sat discreetly to the side. The man disappeared in front the statue, and when he came back, the flowers were gone. I did not see whether he laid them at her feet or threw them into the sea as a sacrifice. He then sat on the rocks, tragically alone, and silently smoking a cigarette. I quietly tiptoed back up the stairs to give him his privacy. I had gotten my photos, but I am not sure it was worth the misery of a broken heart.
I headed back to the train station, figuring it was a good place to find better lodging. I checked into the Hotel Ariarang, a place that had seen better days, but it was still quite comfortable. The paint was peeling, and the gold in the elevator was quite startlingly rendered, but I had a porter who showed me my room with much gusto. I had free Internet access, and a coffee shop and restaurant, so I was content.
I decided to take a bus tour of the city, and met up with some very amusing Taiwanese businessmen. Actually, they were engineers. They spoke excellent English, but no Korean. I found myself in the strange position of giving them key survival phrases, and irony that was not lost on me. I also gave them travel tips for Seoul. We all watched the sunset from the top of a mountain. The fishing ships muttered their way home in the dusk, and we could see them all from very high up.
After a rather spicy Korean dinner, I went back to my room. I grew restless, so I went down to the bustling Busan Station Plaza. People came and went from all walks of life, and a group of street preachers gathered to sing praise songs. I genuinely enjoyed hearing praise music sung in Korean, and drew nearer to the group. They stood in a circle of communion, their hands and voices raised to the night sky. The neon lights came on, and this phenmoenon showed how beautifully rendered Busan Station really was. Unfortunately, my mood was shaply broken when a crazy man began harassing people. He saw me, made eye contact, and came purposefully towards me. I got up quickly and melted into the crowd. Crazy people seem to like me.
I watched some television, then went to sleep.
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