Temple Steps, Ocean Depths, and Convenience Stores
Some mornings, you fight the breakfast buffet. Some mornings, you know better. Today, I knew better. I skipped the chaos of the hotel lounge, bypassed the long lines and fast-moving deathtrap of an elevator, and went straight to Starbucks. A pastry, an Americano, and a moment of silence before the day unfolded.
The group was running late. Our bus driver was running late. But for once, no one seemed to care. We were heading to a temple—a famous one. The kind of place dripping in mythology, tied to dragons and water gods, perched on the edge of the sea like something out of a lost legend. I’d seen my fair share of temples by this point. I thought I knew what to expect. Then I saw it.
This wasn’t a quiet, tucked-away sanctuary like the ones hidden in Seoul’s hillsides. No, this temple had the energy of a festival. Vendors packed the walkway leading to the entrance, two deep on either side, selling everything from Buddhist relics to neon-colored snacks. Beaded bracelets, fresh fruit juices, souvenirs, fried skewers sizzling in open-air stalls—if you didn’t know better, you’d think you were walking into a marketplace, not a sacred site. And the heat. God, the heat. Thick, wet, omnipresent. The kind that clings to you, seeps into your skin, makes the air itself taste like salt. The ocean lay just beyond the cliffs, shimmering under the relentless sun, reflecting the heat right back at us. It was brutal, but the sight ahead made up for it.
A path lined with zodiac statues led us forward, their stone faces worn smooth by time. Two towering wooden dragons flanked the temple gate, painted in the vivid reds, greens, and blues that had become so familiar on this trip. Then the descent began. A staircase carved into the cliffside, winding down through trees and stone, the ocean roaring somewhere below. One gate, then another—each marking another step into a world that felt suspended between land and water, past and present. And then, suddenly, the temple revealed itself. It was massive.
Unlike the hilltop temples I had visited before, this one sprawled across the cliffs, its bright roofs stacked at different levels, the buildings themselves interconnected by bridges and staircases. The main hall faced the sea, its giant windows and doors thrown open to the fresh air, precariously balanced on the edge, as if it had been built there not to resist the ocean, but to belong to it.
Before entering, we stopped at a small footbridge where a stone turtle sat, its back covered in coins thrown by hopeful visitors. The legend went that if your coin landed on its shell, you’d be blessed with good luck. I tossed mine and watched it spin through the humid air—clink—right where it was supposed to land. Maybe, just maybe, the universe was in a good mood today.
Inside the temple grounds, a monk led prayers in one of the outer buildings, his voice carrying over the sound of crashing waves. The air smelled of incense, sea breeze, and hot stone. The 108 steps didn’t just lead to a Buddha this time, but to his mother—a rare sight, even in a country steeped in Buddhist traditions. A sacred grotto filled with Bodhisattvas stood around her statue, tucked into the rock like whispers of past devotion. We tied our wishes to the fence surrounding the platform the statue rested on—silent hopes written on slips of paper, fluttering like tiny flags in the wind—before making our way back down, our clothes sticking to our skin, the heat pressing in once more.
By the time we made it back to the bus, the idea of doing anything that didn’t involve air-conditioning seemed unbearable. Someone floated the idea of the nearby theme park, but even the thought of roller coasters under this sun was exhausting. Luckily, Dr. Woo had a plan. We were heading to a Cantonese restaurant, a spot well-known for its black noodles—a dish with deep roots in Busan’s immigrant communities. The city’s status as a major port had made it a melting pot for generations, and with that came a blend of cuisines. I was skeptical. Cantonese food and I have a complicated relationship—mainly because of my shellfish allergy and the fact that nearly everything contains oyster sauce, dried shrimp, or some other seafood-based seasoning. But the moment I mentioned my allergy, the staff didn’t hesitate. “No problem. What can you eat?” Minutes later, a plate of black noodles arrived at our table, made just for me with chicken instead of seafood. No hidden shellfish, no cross-contamination—just cold, chewy noodles in a rich, savory sauce.
For the first time in a long time, I ate without worry. And it was fantastic.
And the fun didn’t stop there; after lunch, we had one last surprise. We were heading to Busan’s famous aquarium, located right across from the beach. I braced myself, half-expecting another small, depressing zoo like the one on Jeju, but this place? This place was incredible. They had massive sea turtles that blinked lazily as we passed by, toothy sharks gliding lazily through tunnels of glass, and glowing jellyfish drifting like alien spirits. Tanks filled with creatures I had never seen before, an entire world beneath the waves. If there’s one thing that never fails to remind me of how vast and strange our planet is, it’s the ocean.
By the time we left the aquarium, the day was only half gone, and a storm was coming. A massive monsoon was due to roll in the next day, which meant this was our last chance to swim before the ocean turned violent. We hit up Daiso for beach gear, grabbed an abandoned umbrella (because in Korea, public umbrellas exist and people actually respect them), and ran straight into the sea. And oh my gosh, it was perfect.
The water was warm, but still cool enough to be refreshing. Shallow, easy to tread, no sudden drop-offs—just clear, rolling waves. We floated, we swam, I let the salt sting my sunburns and laughed as the waves tossed us around. It felt like exhaling after weeks of holding my breath. As the tide grew stronger, the storm creeping closer, we dragged ourselves out of the water and into a different kind of cultural experience—Korean McDonald’s.
Yes, we had to.
McDonald's changes its menu in every country, and I was curious. The bad news? Potato shortage. No fries. The good news? Korean McDonald’s chicken is next-level, and their sauces? Elite. I paired it with their soft serve—different from the U.S. version, but just as good—and then, for good measure, we hit the convenience store for ramen and snacks. Because sometimes, you don’t need a five-star meal. Sometimes, you just need Pocari Sweat, instant noodles, and a night in.
My sunburn from Jeju was still blistering and my skin felt like it had been peeled raw. The only thing that made me feel better at this point was sitting in a friend’s hotel room, swapping stories, eating junk food, and watching the world turn dark outside the window.
At some point, we all parted ways, and I headed back to my room to escape into K-dramas and the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of still-not-dry laundry.
Some days, you chase adventure. Some days, adventure finds you. And some days, you just float.
