Haeundae Nights: Finding My Rhythm in Busan
Bags packed? Check. Caffeine levels barely keeping me functional? Double-check. Anxiously waiting for the bus to haul us to the airport? Of course. Today, we were leaving Jeju Island, trading volcanic cliffs and citrus groves for the dense, electric sprawl of Busan.
Most people outside of Korea know Busan in the same way they know Seoul—by name only, or maybe because of Train to Busan. But if Seoul is the polished, corporate heartbeat of the country, Busan is the salt-worn, neon-streaked pulse of something grittier. A port city. A place of movement, trade, migration—old money, new chaos. It’s the second-largest city in South Korea, but it doesn’t feel second to anything. And I had no idea what to expect.
But, in true Jeju fashion, our departure wasn’t without a few detours.
First stop: the Museum of Education, a deep dive into the evolution of Korea’s academic system. Confucian classrooms, outdated chalkboards, sleek modern tech, and, for some reason, a terrifying mannequin exhibit where the eyes followed you no matter where you stood. I’d been through my fair share of haunted places, but this? This was a new level of unsettling. The interactive exhibits made up for the fear that wide-eyed Confucian monk instilled in me (but honestly, the museum was great, a good mix of old and new and very illustrative of how their education system has evolved over time).
Next, our bus driver, a man who knew every scenic detour on the island, suggested a pit stop at a lookout point where we could see a famous dragon-shaped rock. We squinted. We tilted our heads. We tried. But years of erosion had turned this once-mythical formation into, well… just a rock. Good luck or not, we played along, grabbed some last-minute snacks from the surrounding vendors, and then, it was time to leave Jeju behind.
The flight was short—barely an hour—but as we descended over Busan, something tightened in my chest. The hills were steep. The plane dropped fast, cutting through the ridges and valleys like a blade through fabric. I gripped the armrest, aware of the fact that while I’ve flown more times than I can count, I still hate landings. But we touched down, the wheels hit pavement, and just like that, we had arrived.
Busan’s heat hit us like a brick wall, thick and humid, but our first welcome surprise made up for it—our original bus driver from Seoul had driven down to finish the rest of the trip with us. A small, unexpected comfort in a city that was about to throw us headfirst into a very different kind of energy. The ride from the airport to our hotel was longer than the plane ride, winding through narrow roads, passing endless high-rises, and dipping under modern suspended highways. We crossed the Diamond Bridge, a futuristic sweep of steel and light that felt more like something from a sci-fi movie than a highway. I had seen it in K-dramas before, but seeing it in real life, glinting against the water, was something else.
But the hotel? The hotel was… not what I expected. Tucked down a narrow alley just a few blocks from Haeundae Beach, it felt more like a place for business travelers—efficient, minimal, and nothing more. A bed, a desk, a window with a view of a concrete-covered hill. The breakfast? Passable. The coffee? Not even close. Luckily, there was a Starbucks downstairs, which quickly became our lifeline for something resembling decent caffeine. By the time we settled in, late afternoon hunger was gnawing at us, so a few of us set off with no plan other than to find food and find it fast. The streets were alive—louder, grittier than Seoul, more layered than Jeju. It felt like someone had taken all of Korea’s history, mixed it with globalization, and slammed it against the backdrop of a coastal metropolis.
We ended up at a Korean BBQ joint—good food, but overpriced. Busan’s seafood influence was everywhere, even in places we didn’t expect, making ordering tricky since a lot of sauces had hidden shellfish. It was a frustrating limitation, but we made it work. And still a little hungry, we wandered the streets looking for dessert. There was a stall selling pastries shaped like 100-won coins, a superstition-laden snack that supposedly brings good fortune. And then there was the Tanghulu stand, where skewers of fruit were dipped in hardened sugar syrup. But here’s where things took a turn—because in Korea, tomatoes are considered a fruit, and among the strawberries and oranges were bright red cherry tomatoes, glistening under layers of crystallized sugar. My American brain short-circuited, but hey, when in Busan.
Afterward, we made a quick stop at Art Box, a Korean chain store that sells everything from stationery to novelty socks, and I grabbed more film for my camera. Some of our group called it a night, but a few of us had one last stop to make.
The beach.
Up until that moment, I wasn’t sure how I felt about Busan. It was overwhelming, a tangle of steel and concrete pressing against the coastline. The skyscrapers loomed, the neon buzzed, and the sound of the city was relentless. But then I stepped onto the sand.
Haeundae Beach is Waikiki’s long-lost twin, missing only Diamond Head to complete the illusion. The way the city spills onto the shoreline, the way the water glows under the skyscrapers’ reflections—it felt familiar, like stepping into a memory I hadn’t realized I’d been holding onto. I waded into the Pacific, the same ocean I had stood in on Jeju, in Hawaii, in California. The same body of water, wrapping itself around different corners of the world, different versions of myself. Busan was loud, chaotic, and unapologetically alive. A city where past and future collide, where industry and art bleed together in the streets. A place shaped by war, by migration, by reinvention. And here, standing on the shore, letting the waves pull at my feet, I finally felt it—Busan’s rhythm. Its energy.
We lingered on the beach, watching the city lights flicker against the water, taking photos, soaking in the moment. Then, eventually, we wandered back to our hotel, exhaustion finally settling in. Tomorrow, Busan would be ours to explore. But tonight, we had the ocean.
