Many Paths to Tread

Sweat beads on my forehead as I stare dubiously at the wriggling mass of tentacles on the plate before me. Though no longer connected to the hapless octopus from which they were unceremoniously severed moments before, the limbs still twitch and crawl, as if seeking to inch their way back to the shallow bucket of water that was their home. Some have suctioned to each other and curled up protectively into balls of purple on my plate, a futile attempt to prevent their inevitable end at the tip of a curious traveler’s chopsticks.

The fish market is alive with activity: vendors harping their still-living wares to wide-eyed tourists, tables full of Korean families enjoying a Saturday afternoon meal, the occasional seagull padding stealthily behind the many fish buckets in hopes of snagging an easy meal. No one bats an eye at the small table of Way-gooks huddled together, collectively mustering up the courage to perform a rite of passage for any expat hoping to call themselves more than just a tourist.

Beyond the fish market the waters of the port sparkle in the late afternoon sun, dancing to the same silent beat as the tentacles before me. The city of Busan spreads out behind the port, a tangle of apartment complexes and neon billboards, Buddhist temples and budding skyscrapers, all strewn among the green-topped mountains that push defiantly toward the sky from the mass of concrete and metal below. The sounds of the city mix with the din of the fish market, an ode to the city that is as alive as the meal on my plate.

I take a deep breath, wondering how I got here from the girl who had never even tried sushi a year previously. Now here I am at the largest fish market in Asia, about to partake in sannakji, sushi’s cousin on steroids, a meal so fresh that it’s not only raw, it’s still alive. As repulsed as I am at the idea of ingesting a living piece of octopus, I know I owe it to the city I love to try the delicacy of which its residents are so proud. In embracing all Busan has to offer, I must too embrace the less appealing traditions. To do otherwise would be to insult the vibrant culture that has made me feel truly alive for the first time.

Steeling myself, I force back thoughts of suffocation from the tentacles suctioning to my throat, and lift a thrashing limb in my chopstick. As it dances back and forth in midair, daring me to continue, I count to three…hana, dul, set… then chew.

I’m still alive.