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Image of Korea 2022 SPRING

Journey to the Realm of Contemplation © Gian The entrance is narrow and the hallway is long. Light seeping from the darkness is constant with unwavering intensity. The pace of time slows. From the left wall, a misty light introduces itself. Something lies there, supine; something vast and firm, a great stone or block of ice. It gradually loses any discernible form, turning into water which slowly vaporizes. The ascending mist transforms into another world. But it is short-lived; eventually a stone reappears. Making our waypast video art by Jean-Julien Pous, we are christened by his vision of the “Cycle” of the universe. Finally, the “Room of Quiet Contemplation” is before us. Our five senses awaken. Every pore of our body opens and our inner space expands – infinite. As consciousness and calm become one, the floor inclines upwards, little by little, barely noticeable, leading to where light and darkness intersect around two mystical beings. This room, opened in November 2021, is a collaboration between architect Choi Wook and a team of “brand story” experts commissioned by the National Museum of Korea. Most people first associate the Louvre in Paris with the Mona Lisa. In much the same way, visitors to the National Museum of Korea are now sure to think first of the Room of Quiet Contemplation and its bodhisattva statues, which have rarely been displayed together. A full millennium separates the Mona Lisa and the two sculptures. Leonardo da Vinci painted the portrait, measuring 77 × 53 cm, in the early 16th century. The sculptures, less than a meter tall, were made in the late 6th and the early 7th centuries. They represent the height of Buddhist art from the Silla period and are designated Korea’s National Treasures No. 78 and No. 83. These masterpieces share two similarities that define them. First, unlike other seated, standing, or reclining Buddhist images, they hover somewhere between sitting and standing, draped over a small round stool, right foot perched on left knee. Meanwhile, their right hands are raised, the tips of their index and middle fingers grazing their chins, showing an attitude of deep thought. What are the Maitreya Bodhisattvas supposed to be thinking? We can only speculate, just as we do with “The Thinker,” Auguste Rodin’s iconic sculpture unveiled some 1,300 years later. Buddhists assume these figures to be contemplating the four phases of life: birth, old age, sickness and death. Yet, encountered in a museum after enough time has passed, even Buddhist images can break free of religious connotations. True contemplation calls for surrendering and finding oneself simultaneously. Perhaps the subtle smiles of these two pensive bodhisattvas are a nod to the faint vibration that lives between this very surrender and discovery, an internalization of time and space that is both broad and deep.

Image of Korea 2021 WINTER

Dreaming of Peace Springtime in the 1960s. A young soldier stationed at the Demilitarized Zone, or DMZ, I would make my way to a barren riverbank nearby to lose myself in the dazzlingly beautiful scenery. On the edge of the cliff bloomed a riot of pink azaleas, and all along the river – where a village once stood, before the war – overgrown weeds lined the site of a rectangular wall. Peach and apricot blossoms were scattered here and there. The soldier is now deep into his twilight years. But the standoff between the two Koreas remains in place. Along that quiet riverbank, too, the flowers still bloom, I’m sure, and the fruits ripen, along with the seasons. ⓒ Park Jong-woo On July 27, 1953, three years after the start of the Korean War, a ceasefire agreement created the Military Demarcation Line (MDL). East to west, the truce line stretches some 240 kilometers, sawing the Korean Peninsula into North and South. A 4-kilometer-wide buffer zone straddles the MDL, 2 kilometers to either side, to avoid further armed conflict. This is the DMZ. Around 907 square kilometers in total area, the zone is marked with high fences and patrolled by soldiers from both sides. Being called “demilitarized,” it should be devoid of weaponry and military activity. But the reality isn’t even close. The area is laden with landmines and the armed forces of both sides constitute one of the highest concentrations of military firepower in the world, a remnant of the Cold War. On the MDL itself is a joint security area, 400 meters in radius, guarded by troops from the South, North and the UN. This is Panmunjom, a spot of international attention to this day. Meanwhile, some 10 kilometers to the north and south of the DMZ, another set of fences has been put up to keep civilians from trespassing, marking what is called the Civilian Control Line. Within the area, however, in accordance with the ceasefire agreement, there are some civilian residents living in Daeseong-dong Village in the South and Kijong-dong Village in the North. With no human inhabitants, the DMZ is one of the most well-preserved natural habitats in the world. Many endangered animals and plants thrive freely. Each year, in early October, thousands of white-naped cranes flying south to escape the Siberian cold come to subsist on the grains of rice that lay strewn across the Cheolwon Plain, north of the Civilian Control Line. Then in early November, we see the arrival of the birds most sacred to our people: the red-crowned cranes. I leaf through pictures of the birds returning, dreaming of the day when the DMZ is fully transformed, at long last, into a peaceful ecological park that people from North and South alike can enjoy.

Image of Korea 2021 AUTUMN

Off-campus Vacancies “Studio, One-Bedroom, Shared Apartment, Fully-Furnished Room, New Construction, To Rent…” Housing flyers cling to alley walls, trees, telephone poles and bus shelters, awaiting the attention of students and non-students strolling near Seoul’s many universities. But nonchalant glances are the most that they muster. As more and more colleges took their classes online amid the COVID-19 pandemic, the student population drained away from these normally bustling neighborhoods. Korean and international students returned home. Landlords responded by cutting rent rates in half, apparently hoping to attract non-students or persuade students to wait in Seoul for in-person classes to resume. But it still wasn’t enough to halt the exodus. In the past, staying would have come with less solitude. Seoul’s university districts were full of boardinghouses that compensated for the modest number of university-owned dormitories. Instead of renting an apartment and doing all the cooking and cleaning themselves, students far from home and family could count on warm, home-cooked meals made by the boardinghouse “auntie.” If she was particularly kindhearted, she might even tidy up rooms and do the laundry. Such nurturing care helped students through their homesickness, and the tenants often became very close to one another, forming bonds like siblings. Indeed, boardinghouse life reflected the communal mindset that characterized the rural towns many tenants called home. Two trends marred this homespun environment. First, university enrollments soared in the 1980s and remained high thereafter. Demand quickly outstripped the supply of boardinghouse rooms. Construction of student housing with self-contained units and minimal common space emerged as a profitable business. This dovetailed with the second trend: a shift in priorities and social behavior. As Korea became more urbanized, the communal spirit once fostered by its agrarian roots ebbed. Individual privacy and autonomy became more valued and pervasive. Studio apartments averaging some 20 square meters soon dominated student housing construction. And before long, a sterile landlord-tenant relationship replaced the warmth between boardinghouse owner and student. Now, pandemic-related restrictions have silenced residential buildings and emptied sidewalks that were formerly filled with students. A south-facing balcony and a modest little kitchen, a slightly cramped but clean bathroom, a built-in closet and desk, a single-person bed… Once overflowing with the dreams, worries and passions of young ambition, the studio now stands empty, with only the sunlight remaining the same. Whether it once again will have a new tenant with fresh hopes depends on vaccination coverage and the direction of the pandemic. Universities hope conditions will allow them to gradually open in-person classes. That should move students from their homes and return them to the off-campus studios. But, of course, the pandemic may deliver yet more surprise, keeping those housing flyers as just an afterthought.

Image of Korea 2021 SUMMER

Mountain Trails Rejuvenated IMAGE OF KOREAMountain Trails Rejuvenated Every now and then, when I awaken in the middle of the night and lie in the dark, I envision myself hiking up a mountain. Houses recede and a forest begins as the trail slopes upward. Under a canopy of leaves and branches, my breathing begins to labor. Left foot, right foot. Light and shadow flicker at each step. My heartbeat quickens and sweat beads on my forehead and back. At the summit, a large boulder awaits. I imagine it all: a cool mountain breeze that streams past, the taste of freedom and a panoramic view before me. © Yang Su-yeol Home to more than 4,000 mountains, or san, a climb is never far away in Korea. This is especially true in Seoul, a megacity with 10 million residents. With Namsan at its center, Seoul is encircled by Ansan, Inwangsan, Gwanaksan, Buramsan, Dobongsan and Bukhansan – almost like a folding screen of mountains. Nature can be accessed within an hour from anywhere in this city. Plan ahead or go at a moment’s notice. Day trips require no special gear. Come as you are. The mountain trails are safe, with no risk of being a victim of crime or a wild animal attack. Regular little shelters that stand along tidy mountain trails increase this sense of assurance. You can relax and enjoy the natural scenery and urban vista below. In March, Bukhansan National Park saw 670,000 visitors – up 41 percent from the same month last year. The faces seen on the trails have changed. Mountain hikes have long been a favorite pastime of those in their 40s and older. But now, online hiking communities and meetup platforms are creating a younger cohort. These new devotees in their 20s and 30s don’t leave their fashion sensibilities and social media habits at home. Instead of the bulky, interchangeable outdoor clothing worn by their parents and grandparents, they prefer stylish leggings and trail running shoes. And they post their hiking selfies to Instagram. Some of these youngsters create new platforms for sharing their interests, forging new relationships and even embarking on themed trips like “Clean Hike,” where everyone picks up trash. Particularly amid COVID-19, finding themselves stuck in place and unable to leave for adventures abroad, the millennial generation increasingly uses the mountains and forests as escape valves from social distancing limitations and deepening pandemic weariness. The embrace of socially distanced travel has made our mountain landscapes more youthful. Lying in the dark, I envy the young hikers in casual dress, standing alone atop a summit of their choosing, meeting the wide world before them; and I pay my respects to the mountain and its newfound youth. And with that, I return to my own climb. Left foot, right foot… Kim Hwa-youngLiterary Critic; Member of the National Academy of Arts

Image of Korea 2021 SPRING

Memories of Country Whistle Stops Recently I came upon news of a high-speed rail line opening between Seoul and Andong. My hometown of Yeongju borders the northern edge of the historical city of Andong, so I’ll now be able to travel there in just one hour and 40 minutes. On a cold winter morning some 60-odd years ago, a 13-year-old boy from a poor mountain village boarded a train at Yeongju Station. That was me – my first solo trip. Many stops with unfamiliar names unfolded before me. And by the time the train reached Seoul, the sky was beginning to darken. Just think. The very same distance can now be covered in about 100 minutes. What true change, what progress! Still, the surprise and gratitude inspired by the speed and convenience of a bullet train coexists with an underlying longing for the slower pace and sweet scenery of days long past. © Ahn Hong-beom The boy’s first-ever train journey set his heart racing with trepidation and wonder. The grown-up sitting next to him asked where he was going and what he planned to do there. I responded proudly that I was going to Seoul to take my middle school entrance examination. The train car was packed with passengers, seated and standing in the aisle. Whenever the train entered a tunnel, the car darkened then soon brightened again. The black smoke and soot belching from the engine car came through open windows. The train stopped at a small country station. The auntie in the facing seat who shared her boiled eggs with me had been drooling in her sleep, but suddenly she jerked awake and gathered her things. Her back as she stepped off the train, together with a young student in a school uniform, and disappeared beyond the whistle stop… The flowerbeds blooming with various fleeting annuals like cosmos, trembling in the breeze… Such scenes became an inextricable part of my train journey. Today, KTX trains race past small stops in a matter-ofcourse manner. Many country stations have been abandoned and demolished, having lost their purpose long ago. But some have been repurposed into cafés, diners or little museums, offering people a trip down memory lane and revitalizing these sites as tourist attractions. Awakening from a light sleep in the deep of night, I sometimes take that young boy I once was and sit him down in the darkness of a lonely, old whistle stop. Then I turn on a faint light in each of the whistle stop waiting rooms that have flowed through the course of my life, and picture scenes from the poem “At Sapyeong Station” by Kwak Jae-gu. “…with its windows like autumn leaves / who knows where the night train runs / calling out each moment I have longed for, I / tossed a handful of my tears into the light.”

Image of Korea 2020 WINTER

2020: Wary, Weary Eyes Only As we embark on the first months of 2021, we can begin to look back at a full year of large pieces of cloth covering noses, mouths and cheeks, leaving only two anxious eyes peering out of each face. What initially felt like part of a nightmare has become another routine aspect of our daily lives – so much so that it is chilling, this example of humanity’s capacity to adapt to misfortune. Before, the word “mask” may have evoked the classic novel “The Man in the Iron Mask,” or a painted wooden mask used in traditional theater, or even the feathered eye-masks of a masquerade ball. Pressed to think of something more unusual, I might have pictured masked student protestors flooding a college campus or marching in the streets. © Yonhap News Industrial pollution, yellow dust and global wind patterns have conspired for years to force Koreans to wear facemasks and curtail their outdoor exposure. I myself began regularly using a KF94 mask on my outings around town. Indeed, it seems Korea’s preventative measures to defend against airborne threats have been a factor in our relative success against the COVID-19 pandemic. Surely, years from now we will recall the spring of 2020 with a pang: an anxious period when people waited in endless lines at every pharmacy door, showing their ID to receive their designated mask allotment. Meanwhile, masks have become a social norm of sorts. They are now widely understood to be the most effective means of protecting healthy individuals from the asymptomatic or mildly symptomatic carriers that characterize the new coronavirus specifically. Masks are now something more than a personal choice: they have become a necessity for the greater “public good.” “Look at My Eyes!” There has been a sudden increase in “women with intense eyes” recently. When it comes to products for parts of the face hidden by one’s mask, makeup sales have plummeted, but they say eyeliner, eyeshadow and mascara are flying off the shelves. Eyes aside, what about the liberation of the nose and mouth? When will they be able to return to be readily seen again, allowing us to take in our neighbors’ whole and brightly smiling faces once more?

Image of Korea 2020 AUTUMN

Only The Road to Buseok Temple There is a very old Buddhist temple in Yeongju, my hometown. Its name recalls a mysterious “floating stone,” or buseok, that is related to the temple’s foundation, laid in the seventh century. My grandmother, though not quite a full-fledged believer, frequented Buseok Temple to pray for the happiness of her children and especially for me, her eldest grandson. On Buddha’s Birthday, in May, I would accompany her. That required walking 10 li (4 km) to the Buseok marketplace and another 10 li along a lonely valley road. © Ahn Hong-beom The hike became most demanding at the temple’s front gate, which had a single pillar. A signboard announcing “Buseok Temple, Mt. Taebaek” marked the edge of the secular world. From there, a long, uphill path lined with ginkgo trees and apple orchards awaited us. Next, we’d reach the Gate of the Heavenly Kings, then two bell pavilions slightly to the side and more stone stairs. Next to appear was the Paradise Hall. The number of stairs up to this point was 108, the number of kleshas, or afflictions that plagued the mind. Passing under the pavilion and up more stairs, we would emerge in the yard immediately facing an ancient stone lantern. Behind it was the Hall of Infinite Life, a welcoming sight with the corner of its eaves looking poised for flight. As my grandmother’s faithful follower, I always entered through the side door and bowed three times before Amitabha Buddha. Behind this hall to the left is the “floating rock.” Its legend, which concerns the love of a maiden, Seonmyo, is narrated in the 13th century history book “Memorabilia of the Three Kingdoms” (Samguk yusa). But I prefer the story told by my grandmother: “When the king of Silla decided to build a temple here to protect the area with the Buddha’s power, National Preceptor Uisang roamed the mountain pass looking for a proper site. One day, he loosened a big rock with his forefinger and sent it flying into the sky. The rock became a black cloud and floated around for seven days, sending down heavy rain until it finally descended, blessing this spot. But it never actually touched the ground, and so even today, if you place a string under the rock and tug on it, the string will not break.” I love the sight from the pagoda behind the shrine to the maiden; the raised eaves on the corners of the Hall of Infinite Life; the ridges of Mt. Sobaek seen beyond the Paradise Hall, rising, falling and fading like a fugue; and the breathtakingly lovely evening light that settles on those rolling ridges. The path behind the pagoda leads to a quiet, modest building with a gabled roof: the Hall of the Patriarchs, where a portrait of Uisang is enshrined. I sit on the hall’s neat, unadorned base and, as I think about the giant rock which is said to float into the sky on quiet nights and look down smiling on the sleeping children, I long for my grandmother.

Image of Korea 2020 SUMMER

Bean Sprouts, Unraveled Only a few desks and chairs are left in the large classroom. After all, the children must sit far apart. This is what classrooms look like as COVID-19 rampages and social distancing makes separation the new normal. © Ahn Hong-beom Thirty-odd years ago, Korean schools appeared entirely different. Swollen enrollments forced shoulder-to-shoulder seating in so-called “bean sprout classrooms.” The way we sat so close together conjured up the way bean sprouts are grown – tightly jammed in a jar. In the warmth of those overstuffed rooms, we found comfort in being together. Soybean sprouts, or kongnamul, are a favorite vegetable in Korea. Over the ages, soybeans have been grown in large quantities in Northeast Asia. At home, the beans are first soaked in water and then placed in a large pottery jar with holes in the bottom. The jar is kept in a shady spot and watered several times a day. Within a week, long sprouts with yellow heads and white stems fill the jar. When the beans begin to sprout, they produce a pleasant aroma. Although their protein level drops slightly, the sprouts grow rich in fiber and amino acids, as well as vitamin C, which is completely lacking in the beans themselves. One hundred grams of soybean sprouts is packed with three times as much vitamin C as the same amount of apple. And the fine, hairy ends of the sprouts contain asparagine, which relieves hangovers, so the sprouts are used in soups commonly eaten after overdrinking. Easily available and inexpensive, soybean sprouts are eaten in various ways: blanched and seasoned to make a side dish, cooked in soup, or steamed with rice. I grew up in the countryside at a time when rural families were self-sufficient. For me, the sound of water running through the bean sprout jar sitting in a dark corner of my room was like the footsteps of time carrying away my childhood. Every day after school, I would lift the hemp cloth off the jar and recycle the water that had gathered in a basin underneath, using a split gourd, just as my grandmother did. The water drained instantly. How can the sprouts grow if the water drains so fast? And yet they shoot up so quickly. “Spiritual practice is about habit. Your words and behaviors repeated over time become a part of you and cannot be hidden. It is like gathering light to ignite a lamp for the path to awakening. The same is true of life. Although water wets them only briefly, soybean sprouts grow if watered repeatedly. Likewise, your everyday words and behaviors become habits, which will ultimately change your destiny.” These are the words of Abbot Dongeun at Cheoneun Temple.

Image of Korea 2020 SPRING

First Birthday Wishes A photo sent to my cell phone is a welcome reminder of my granddaughter’s first birthday party. It took place on a sparkling day last June in a hotel banquet room. After much coaxing, she had surrendered to a traditional cap (jobawi) placed on her head. Then she tossed it off. Two small tables held rice cakes, fruit and colorful objects on a tray. A pouch embroidered with peonies and a decorative red sash were also laid atop an abundant coil of thread. © Yang Jun-seok A golf ball on the tray captured my granddaughter’s attention, but her mother intervened. Removing the ball, she muttered, “What’s this thing doing here?” Presented with the tray again, my granddaughter beamed and picked up a large toy microphone. In Korean tradition, the banquet held to celebrate a baby’s first year of life is called doljanchi. Dol means first birthday, signifying completion of one full cycle of 12 months, and janchi is a banquet or party. In the past, when basic needs for life were in short supply, many babies did not live to see their first birthday. Those who did were celebrated at a family banquet. Going on to have one of the lowest infant mortality rates in the world did not end this rite of passage. The highlight of the day is doljabi. This is when the baby’s future is predicted by an object that the child plucks from a tray. Objects representing health and longevity include a skein of thread, noodles, white rice cake (baekseolgi) and sorghum cake balls covered in red beans (susu patteok). Money, of course, foretells wealth. Items such as paper and a writing brush, books and ink, a bow and arrow, and mapae (a horse requisition tablet bestowed upon public servants of the Joseon Dynasty) were typically placed in front of boys. For girls, housekeeping-related items were added, such as needles, scissors and an iron, spools of thread and cloth. But these days no such distinction is made. Instead, for both boys and girls, modern-age doljabi objects often include a golf ball, microphone, stethoscope, judge’s gavel, and even a computer mouse. As I imagined the future of my granddaughter who picked the microphone, I suddenly recalled what her mother – my daughter – had chosen some 30 years before. Reaching beyond the assorted objects displayed before her, my daughter snatched up one of the rice cakes stacked behind the mélange and took a big bite out of it. Perhaps that’s why she is now the happy mother of several children, with plenty of food on the dinner table.

Image of Korea 2019 WINTER

Kimjang @imagetoday Around the time when only a handful of red autumn leaves would remain on the branches, my childhood home began buzzing with winter preparations. Cabbages solid to the core were brought in from the vegetable garden and stacked in the yard. Then they were cut in half, their yellow insides proudly showing, and placed in a big basin to be sprinkled with salt. The festivities of kimjang, the winter kimchi making, began with the pungent scent of spicy seasonings wafting around the house. Kimchi is a symbolic food on the Korean dining table and an icon of Korean culture. It is a fermented food devised by our ancestors as a way to eat vegetables throughout the winter. Rich in lactic acid bacteria, kimchi develops a range of distinct flavors as it ripens. When napa cabbages (baechu) are salted, they retain their freshness while the enzymes in the briny water stimulate a chemical response with the fiber to start fermentation. The seasoning, a combination of vegetable and animal ingredients, including thin radish strips, garlic, scallions, red pepper powder, salted seafood, fresh squid and pine nuts, transforms kimchi into a perfect preserved food. Kimchi thus prepared is stored in earthenware crocks that are buried in the ground and taken out to eat during the winter months. These days, however, kimchi is stored more conveniently in high-tech kimchi refrigerators. There are over 200 kinds of kimchi, differing according to region and family recipe. Red peppers were added to kimchi recipes in the mid-18th century and the napa cabbage used today as the main ingredient is an improved variety that was introduced to Korea in the late 19th century. Kimchi became a renowned international food after the 1988 Seoul Olympics. The export of kimchi began in 2000, and in December 2013, the time-old kimjang culture of making and sharing kimchi in late autumn to early winter was inscribed on the UNESCO List of Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Nowadays, however, rather than making kimchi themselves, many people buy kimchi packed in plastic bags at the supermarket or order it online. But whenever the kimjang season comes around, I still miss the old days when I would bend my head so far back that it faced the sky, waiting for my aunt to drop a dollop of freshly-made kimchi right into my mouth.

Image of Korea 2019 SUMMER

Perfect Pairing Koreans are, whether good or bad, among the heaviest drinkers in the world and food is invariably on the table with bottles and cans of liquor. Makgeolli, a milky rice wine, demands an order of mung bean pancakes. Soju, the clear, distilled liquor, is best with grilled pork belly. For fried chicken, anything other than beer is practically unthinkable. Indeed, chimaek, an English-Korean compound of chicken and maekju, is ingrained in the everyday lexicon. The history of chimaek is relatively short. In the post-Korean War years, even a fried egg was a rare sight, let alone fried chicken. Then, in 1960, an incipient version of chimaek appeared at Nutrition Center, a restaurant in Myeong-dong, downtown Seoul. It served rotisserie chicken and draft beer. Around that time, U.S. chicken breeds and feed began to be imported, and a few years later, poultry farms with chickens crammed in cages emerged. Meanwhile, shortening, cooking oil and flour became mass produced. With all the ingredients reaching critical mass, Lim’s Chicken, the first Korean fried chicken chain, opened in 1977 in Shinsegae Department Store’s basement, a hub of prepared foods in downtown Seoul. Seven years later, Korea’s first Kentucky Fried Chicken store opened in the neighboring Jongno District. Today’s familiar chimaek pairing surfaced in 2002, when Korea co-hosted the World Cup finals with Japan. The underdog Korean team made a surprising run to reach the semifinals, sending the whole country into a frenzy. Exhilarated fans gathered in front of screens in plazas, restaurants, pubs and bars and ordered chimaek as they watched the matches. Propelled by Korean TV series exalting it, chimaek also spread to other Asian countries. There is also a dark side, though. The boiling cooking oil, high-calorie batter and lofty sodium level of Korean-style chicken plus the beer whet the appetite and thirst, leading to overeating and overdrinking. Thus, besides joyous memories, Koreans’ beloved go-to favorite for social gatherings is associated with obesity, gout, heart disease and liver disease. Nevertheless, all over the country, a quick phone call can summon the popular pairing to the door within half an hour at a relatively affordable price, opening up “chimaek heaven.”

Image of Korea 2019 SPRING

Greeting the Spring Heung and han are the most commonly used concepts to describe the disposition of Koreans. The former refers to the joy of life and impulse to play when earthly and human energies intersect; the latter is pent-up emotion stemming from unresolved problems. A distinctive manifestation of heung is enjoying the early spring flowers. When March arrives, anxious people impatiently look outside their windows. But it is not until late in the month that the tidings of spring flowers that began on Jeju Island arrive. Then, the number of south-bound trains and buses is increased, and restless souls start making travel plans. The most popular spring flowers among Koreans are pink cherry blossoms (beotkkot), followed by white plum (maehwa) and yellow cornelian cherry (yuchae) blossoms. Spring flower festivals start in Maehwa Village in Gwangyang, South Jeolla Province. Clusters of brilliant white plum blossoms blanketing the villages along the banks of the Seomjin River present glorious views that attract more than a million visitors each year. Yet, the highlight is the Jinhae Cherry Blossom Festival in early April. This festival started in the 1960s. Cherry trees dotted Jinhae during Japanese rule. The trees around the naval base were removed after liberation, but those inside the base were left untouched and continued to grow. When it was later discovered that Jinhae’s cherry trees were not a Japanese species but the Korean flowering cherry from Jeju Island, a movement started to restore the trees. Every spring, Jinhae is covered in cherry blossoms that shower crowds of visitors with lovely petals. Rivaling Jinhae is a four-kilometer road lined with over a thousand cherry trees in Hwagae, also in South Gyeongsang Province. The trees were planted on both sides of the road built in the 1930s to connect Hwagae Market and Ssangye Temple. The road stretches alongside the Seomjin River, meandering around hills and arched by old cherry branches forming a fantastic floral tunnel. City dwellers who can’t afford to travel are not denied the pleasures of spring. Seoul and all major cities around the country are redolent with the scent of flowers every spring. Some of the most famous urban spring blossom sites are Yunjung-ro in Yeouido and Seokchon Lake in Seoul, Bomun Lake in Gyeongju, Gurye County at the foot of Mt. Jiri, and Dalmaji (Moon Greeting) Hill at Haeundae Beach in Busan. According to statistics, nine out of every ten Koreans travel to see the flowers in spring; seven of them venture far from home for at least an overnight trip; and one of these seven follows the cherry blossom trail to Japan. Unfortunately, spring in Korea is fleeting. In mid-April, the heat of summer is almost ready to make one long for chilly weather again. When the tourists are gone after relishing spring, piles of rubbish are left behind. The evanescent nature of spring may perhaps be a thread of han that lingers in the air.

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