Dear Friends and Family,

Koreans have a beautiful tradition for New Year’s: many Koreans find it propitious to greet the New Year’s first sunrise over the sea at the eastern-most point of their peninsula, near Pohang. I couldn’t think of a more beautiful beginning and decided to join them. However, based on pragmatic terrible traffic, my prospective companions balked at Pohang and offered me a compromise: Busan has an impressive bridge and we could greet the sunrise from it. The decision of shivering by myself ‘til sunrise versus going to Busan with two friends was a no brainer – so hours after my sister departed on her jet plane, I found myself in the back seat of my friend Stella’s car, on a toll highway to Busan.

In the interest of fairness, I must confess that I was not at my best physically, emotionally or mentally. I was a mite blue, barely constrained due to exhaustion. My sister and I had slept less than 3 fitful hours before we bundled her off to the airport although upon my return home, I fell into my bed for another 2 hours. The result of this fractured sleep was not pretty because frankly, I’m old and severely Starbucks-undernourished, and I cannot stand sleep deprivation like I once used to. But my friend Julie bribed me from my bed with the promise of a nap - although I had to promise to not be cranky in the meantime.

It was mid-afternoon when we arrived in Busan city with a rough idea of where to stay, what we were doing, who we could hang out with, although unfortunately after placing our cell phones at our ears, our idea only became rougher. So we pulled out our guides and settled on my favorite little secret of Busan: the Angel Hotel, central and affordable. I was gratified to be recognized upon check-in (maybe I wasn’t as physically bad off as I thought?) and then we took ourselves out for a spicy lunch, a meal in which our seafood curled on the grill in front of us while Stella, who is a determined Korean teacher, undertook educating us on how to say the Korean version of “Happy New Year.” A tall order! The New Year’s wish was the longest Korean phrase that I had learned yet and parts wouldn’t stick. Stella eventually conceded that I could have part of a gold star sticker – for effort. Stella is a tough but scrupulously fair teacher.

Time flew after lunch: my friends journeyed to Busan Tower while I pulled a crisp white comforter over my head for another two hours of sleep. And then, quite naturally, it was dinner time. More phone calls were placed, inclinations were checked. We did not rush to our dinner destination; instead we discovered a Starbucks, danced with large Rice Wine bottle mascots and finally took the subway to the Jagalchi Fish Market, famed all over Korea for the freshness and variety of its seafood. As we walked down darkened streets where vendors were pulling tarps across their stalls, we quietly wished we had rushed. Hungry, we found a running escalator and rode up through a worn plastic tunnel to a vast concrete room, with aisles between raised platforms covered in aged linoleum. We were divested of our shoes and ushered to a low table and scant minutes later we found ourselves dipping our chopsticks into my newest favorite Korean meal: raw fish + soju.

My first experience with raw fish + soju ended in a disaster of Bridget proportions, my second experience added to my tank-riding high, and my third was hole-in-the-wall charming. First placed on our table was a large bowel of broth-steamed mussels along with a platter of pickled onions, rich seaweed, whole steamed shrimp in shells, oysters divested from their half-shells, broccoli, garlic, and quails eggs. Next came pumpkin jon, which we pulled to pieces with our chopsticks while red chili sauce was squirted into small bowls, soju was poured, sesame leaves were moved into reach, and finally a platter of finely sliced raw fish was placed between us. I did not bother containing my excitement as I pinched my first piece of fresh, fresh fish and lifted it to my mouth. This fish is good anyway you eat it. Sometimes I lift a plain piece to my mouth, the taste rich on my tongue. Other times I select a sesame leaf and lay it on the palm of my hand before plucking up a length of fish, gathering a dab of chili sauce at the end of my chopsticks, next adding a clove of raw garlic and then wrapping it all into my mouth. Raw fish + soju is the most Korean of meals – and I suppose that most of you will just have to take my word for it – it is bliss. And the perfect taste on my tongue to nod farewell to 2006 and meet 2007.

Oh, and for those who have caught the pattern of a Korean meal. Yes, there was kimchi, rice, and the meal’s soup was fish bones simmered on a rusting burner on the side of our table.

As we ate time began to speed and soon we were forced to speed with it. After counting bills with our friendly waitress, we rushed to the subway with long steps and then urged the taxi towards the hills. In Korea, the New Year itself is often marked with a Buddhist bell ringing ceremony and we had made the easy choice to forgo the throng of tourists at Busan Tower public square and instead enjoy the genuine article – a temple bell ringing ceremony… and then free soup.

The city lights were at our backs as we climbed from the cab and our fingers itched for our cameras. Again with hurried steps, we walked uphill to the brightly lit temple, bowing up the stairs to temple elders. Our shoes shifted from our feet to painted wooden shelves as we stepped into one of the most beautiful Buddhist temples I’ve ever been to – and I’ve been to Thailand! The wooden floor was waxed shiny smooth, Korean silk cushions were stacked against the walls, murals colored the walls, the ceiling glowed with lotus-shaped lanterns, and hundreds of gold Buddhas presided upfront. My eyes wide, my demeanor respectful, I found a spot to descend to my knees, silently greeting Buddha, soberly contemplating a year that marked actual change in my life and celebrated the thought that this was the mere beginning of my journeys – where ever they and I would take me. But midnight was approaching and the sanctuary was emptying as people climbed the side stairs so my friends and I returned shoes to our feet and climbed too. At the top we received many smiles as we situated ourselves near the staircase, kneeling so that we and others could perfectly see an enormous suspended brass bell. A gray-robed monk pulled on a pair of white gloves and pulled back a pendulous wood log while a black-suited man marked midnight utilizing his cell phone. Spontaneously the crowd smiled as the monk freed the log to bong the bell. The resulting sound was sweet and deep… it reverberated my breastbone, reverberated my entire being. I closed my eyes. And snapped them open again as people began to clap.

The New Year’s clapping inspired me to let out a long-conditioned New Year’s “wooo-ho////,” that I quickly truncated when I realized that woo-hooing was not en vogue in this crowd nor appropriate. Several people beamed to silently tell me that I was forgiven and that they were glad that I was happy – but I was (and should’ve been) mortified. However we soon returned all our attention to the monk as he again rang the bell and then again, a total of three times in succession, pausing between each strike as the bell vibrated, magnificently, its sound indescribably lovely.

I was still entranced with bell when several dark-suited men pulled white gloves on and gathered around the log to, as a team, to ring the bell three times in succession and afterwards descend the staircase. More white gloves and this time it was a group of smartly brooched women ringing the bell, three times, before disappearing downwards. The crowd shifted towards the basket of gloves and the bell and we followed. I had a momentary qualm about my non-Buddhist self ringing the sacred bell but was reassured by an older lady shoving a pair of gloves into my doubtful hands. Stella handed her camera to my glove lady while she, me and my friend Julie joined the hands of others on the rope and the log and clumsily rang the bell three times in succession. Up close, the sound oddly diminishes but you can feel the bell to your toes.

Our bell ringing complete, we also returned downstairs to the sanctuary and joined the crowd now kneeling on silken cushions. The monk lead from just to the side of Buddha, sometimes chanting, sometimes bowing, sometimes sermonizing. Stella did her best to translate but I mostly imitated the crowd and let the monk’s words Korean flow over me. When the service was over, we were ushered into our shoes and a kind lady lead us to a side building, where we were ushered out of our shoes, seated at a low table, and metal bowls of a traditional rice cake soup and a huge mounds of a dessert rice cake were placed before us. The crowd watched us from the corners of their eyes and intermittently queried Stella about us, one lady told Stella that we were the first foreigners to join them for soup and that they were honored. Neither Julie nor I have the words to insist that we are the ones that should be and are honored by their hospitality. But happily for us a respectful bow, a “kamsa haam ni dah” (“thank you”), and a smile that reaches into our eyes goes a long way. A cab then returned us to our hotel for a three hour pre-dawn nap.

Wishing you all grace similar to that of a brass Buddhist bell. --Laura