Cheering for Cherry Blossoms

(Written mid-April)

Busan has gone soft. The harsh right angles of the concrete jungle have been rounded. Everything has taken on a fluffy, downy appearance. Things are mellowed; the usual roar of the city muffled and replaced with the buzzing of thousands of busy bees concerned only with sipping the fresh nectar from the newly blossomed cherry trees.

Millions of the palest pink flowers have taken over the city, and indeed the entire Korean peninsula. Some say they were brought here by the invading Japanese. Others say they've been here all along, and it's the Japanese who stole them back to the island nation. And so the age-long feud between these two Asian nations, who love to hate each other, continues.

Individually, the cherry blossom is a simple, unassuming flower. It's in the presence of hundreds of thousands of its brothers that it derives its powers of shock and awe.

Not contented with viewing the new foliage only in Busan, we traveled to the cherry blossom capital of Korea -- Jin Hae, a sleeply fishing village and navel port, which comes alive for two weeks every year for its Cherry Blossom Festival.

We had to let three buses go by, and even after we got on one, it was standing room only for the hour-long ride to Jin Hae. We emerged at the seaside town ravenous and explored the festival grounds, which offered more food stands than cherry trees.

Liz and I climbed up about 50 flights of stars lined with over-enthusiastic cherry trees and tourists armed with tripods (Koreans love to take photos) to Jin Hae Tower, which afforded a panoramic view of the town. The faint pink of the cherry trees dotted the evergreen hillside, like tufts of cotton, not really strong enough to make a statement against the dark forest backdrop, but trying hard just the same.

After climbing down, pajang and live baby octopus were on the lunch menu. It started with pajang: a flour and egg pancake embedded with green onion and seafood. My fellow foreigner friends became curious about all the Koreans around us noshing on the live baby octopus and resolved to take the plunge. And so, a platter of the still wriggling invertebrate was ordered up and bets placed on who could eat the most of this largely flavorless, chewy sea creature.

After lunch, everyone headed back to Busan to rest up for the night out ahead. Alone, I continued to the navel base, where I took in some modern and historic Korean warships and planes. The 30-minute walk down the pristine, cherry-tree-line lanes was breathtaking, made all the more startling by the steely, gray ocean backdrop.

I mused that my departed friends might have appreciated the scenic walk. I'd scarcely formed the thought before running into more people I knew, though. For better or worse, you're never alone for long in Korea.