NEARLY EVERY MORNING, an old Korean man sits on a white plastic stool near the southbound Bomnaegol bus stop and sells apples. Business suits hurry by while he sits patiently, in his tackle vest and fleece, occasionally pounding his thighs as older Koreans do, to keep the blood pumping. I call him the “Apple Man”, because when I first noticed him his cart was filled with apples, of which he sells seven for 3,000 won.
I once tried to buy a cucumber from a woman around the corner from me, and she confidently charged me 5,000 won. I asked her again, and she stuck five fingers at me, rapidly saying other things I did not understand. I now refer to her as “Racist Cucumber Lady” and we glare at each other when I walk past her shop twice a day.
My first published piece for Busan Haps, just in time for spring.