The Hills, the Heights, and the Hidden Stories of Busan
Breakfast at the hotel started with a near-death experience—well, at least it felt like one. The elevator, a high-speed rocket masquerading as a lift, shot us down to the lobby in record time, swaying just enough to remind us that yes, we were in a towering skyscraper, and no, gravity was not to be trusted. My stomach lurched, my ears popped, and by the time I stepped out into the breakfast lounge, I was already in need of a coffee and a moment to collect myself.
Korean hotel breakfasts never disappoint. A buffet spread that looked like a summit between East and West—waffle makers and steak platters, kimchi at every turn, a salad bar nestled next to steaming bowls of soba noodles. It was food for the adaptable, for those willing to start the day with miso soup instead of eggs and toast. But the coffee? Tragic. Barely passable. A betrayal in liquid form. So, like a desperate pilgrim, I found salvation in the Starbucks conveniently tucked into the building. Americano secured, dignity restored, I hustled back to meet the group. Today, we were taking to the skies—sort of.
The Busan Sky Cruise isn’t just a cable car ride; it’s an introduction to the city’s scale, a slow ascent into the clouds where the skyline meets the sea. As we hovered above the sprawling bay, the city stretched out before us—a clash of nature and concrete, modernity and memory. Below, ships drifted into harbor, cranes worked in slow, mechanical rhythm, and the pulse of Busan beat in every street we could see from above.
At the summit, we found ourselves face to face with a surprise: The Little Prince. Busa, loves the French novella about a boy who leaves his tiny planet in search of adventure. The tourist zone here was built around his story, and for me, it hit home. The Little Prince was a childhood staple in my family—a book passed down, read aloud, clung to in times of transition. Seeing his familiar face painted on walls, standing in statues against the backdrop of the sea, felt like an old friend waiting for me in an unexpected place. We soaked in the views, snapped our obligatory photos, and caffeinated at a café as whimsical as the storybook setting. This was Korea’s Year of Tourism, a government initiative to open doors and invite travelers in, and for a fleeting moment, and this was one of the many spots that had renovated to welcome throngs of people just like us. I entertained the idea of coming back to Korea before the program ended while sipping my fancy latte while overlooking the vast calm sea just outside. A fantasy, sure, but one I wasn’t ready to let go of just yet.
Our next stop took a sharp turn—Gamcheon Culture Village (감천문화마을). Known for its candy-colored houses stacked like Lego bricks on the steep hills of Busan, this neighborhood has become an Instagram darling. But what most people don’t see, or choose not to see, is the weight behind its beauty. Gamcheon wasn’t always a photo op. It was once a refugee settlement, built by those who had fled the North during the war. Until the early 2000s, it lacked even basic infrastructure—no running water, no modern sewage, just survival stacked house by house on the hillside. The Little Prince, so beloved here, became a symbol of the village’s resilience—a wanderer who longed for home but found meaning in the journey. The brightly colored walls were painted with murals of the Prince , accompanied by BTS, and their members Jimin and Jungkook — who were both raised in Busan and are the pride of their hometown.
Our guide led us off the beaten path, winding through alleyways where the past clung stubbornly to the present. She pointed out remnants of an era when people bathed in shared facilities, when toilets were makeshift, when homes weren’t yet homes but shelters. The murals and bright paint didn’t erase that history; they stood as a testament to it. And it hit me—this wasn’t so different from what I’d seen in Hawaii. Tourists marveling at a place they’ll never have to live in, walking past hardships that don’t exist in their reality. It’s easy to romanticize what you don’t have to endure. The visit left me reflective, walking the tightrope between admiration and awareness. I wanted to celebrate this place without exploiting it, to contribute without being another outsider passing through, taking without giving back. It was a reminder to be mindful—of my presence, of my privilege, of the stories embedded in the places I visit.
From Gamcheon, we detoured to an unplanned but poignant stop: the United Nations Memorial Cemetery. A place of stillness in a city of motion, where the past demanded recognition.
Here, soldiers from around the world who fought in the Korean War are laid to rest. Americans, too—young men who had never returned home, their names etched in stone, their stories left unfinished. We watched the flag-lowering ceremony, the South Korean, United Nations, and American flags descending together in the fading light. It was a quiet, solemn moment, a stark contrast to the bustling energy of Busan outside the gates. A reminder of what had been lost to create the Korea we were experiencing now.
As the evening settled in, our guide—who was leaving us after this day—wanted to give us one last taste of Busan. She and our driver, both locals, took us to a tiny, unassuming pork belly barbecue joint tucked into a side street near our hotel. It was a meal that needed no grand introductions, no gimmicks—just sizzling meat, the pop of soju bottles, and that perfect bite of crisp lettuce, spicy sauce, and tender pork melting together in harmony. The kind of meal that reminds you why food is the great unifier, the thing that makes strangers into friends and turns a long, heavy day into something comforting and warm. With our guide’s departure, we were on our own in Busan. Some of us wandered into the night, dipping into shops, picking up souvenirs. Others, like me, had more practical matters at hand—laundry.
Now, a word of advice for the uninitiated traveler: never assume hotel laundry facilities will be sufficient. Two washers, two dryers, 25 floors of guests—it was an uphill battle. We fought for supremacy in that tiny room, bonding with fellow travelers over the universal struggle of trying to dry clothes in a foreign country. That’s how I found myself sitting on the floor, swapping stories with a family from L.A. who, by sheer coincidence, knew my hometown of Bakersfield. The world is small, even in the most unexpected corners. And, in a final act of defiance, the dryers refused to work. So I did what any resourceful traveler would do—I took my damp clothes upstairs, strung up an impromptu clothesline, turned on the bathroom fan, and prayed to whatever gods govern laundry that my clothes would be dry by morning.
As I lay in bed, the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of wet fabric was my unwanted lullaby. I thought back on the day. Busan had already left its mark—high above the city in a cable car, deep in the history of Gamcheon’s alleyways, in the silence of a war cemetery, in the smoky haze of a barbecue joint, and even in a crowded, chaotic laundry room.
Tomorrow, there was still more to explore. More stories to uncover. But for now, I drifted off to sleep, wrapped in the weight of the day, the city’s energy buzzing just beyond my window.
