I shoot him a look and swallow hard, feeling the unmasticated suction cups working their way down my esophagus.
This is Seoul. The sprawling South Korean capital region, almost destroyed during the Korean War, now is home to nearly 25 million people, all living, working, and playing - as they have since the cease-fire that ended the conflict in 1953 - within artillery range of a volatile North Korea. Still, that hasn't stopped the city, dubbed "The Miracle on the Han River" for its meteoric rise from war-ravaged poverty to global business dominance, from thriving in the shadow of the gun.
Like my vigorous octopus snack, it's an offering you've probably heard little about, but one that holds more than its fair share of surprises.
If New York is the Big Apple, and Jakarta the Big Durian, then Seoul may appropriately be called the Big Kimchi Pot. Like the earthenware jars that families bury in the earth to ferment Korea's ubiquitous pickled cabbage mixture, the city is, figuratively speaking, still mostly underground.
Don't let the low profile fool you, however: Like those clay urns, Seoul has some serious magic percolating just beneath the surface.
It's late Friday night a week later in Hongdae, the bohemian neighborhood surrounding central Seoul's Hongik University, and the streets are awash with neon and pounding music. Twentysomething students and expats drift in and out of a dense network of bars and clubs, and in the concrete playground at Hongik Park, a group of street performers launch into a long-jam version of Bob Marley's "No Woman No Cry." From the rooftop of dark, funky Bar Da, a famous artists' hangout a short distance away, I sit and watch the crowds pouring through the nighttime streets.
