It was one of those decisions weighed somewhat carefully over the course of a couple of hours. Not continuously, but off and on as the day’s order of events were followed through. A choice between this or that, where this was more appealing right off, but that was the more practical option. For the first half of the day, I was firm in wanting this and it wasn’t until the very last moment that I changed my mind, turning right instead of left and choosing that.

Bus 46, though it is a longer, more crowded route, is super deluxe and a comfortable ride. I was sure I’d take it, despite it costing more than twice the ride of 83-1. But as the sun moved farther west, I opted finally to just catch 83-1, on which I’d certainly get a seat and whose route is shorter. But it wouldn’t be as comfortable and that was what I really wanted: luxury. The stops for each bus are separated only by an intersection at Kwangwhamun, a large one I might add.

At first I was certain I’d made the right choice: 83-1 comes frequently and 46, while fairly frequent, can be scarce. So standing in line behind a few folks at the 83-1 sign, I was certain I’d wait only a few moments, but bus after bus of other numbers passed by, picking up and dropping off, while the line in which I stood shifted its weight from one foot to the other. In this time, I never saw a 46 fly by, but then that choice was no longer my concern and I had my eyes fixed on the horizon for a decrepit-green or a greying-orange city bus. None came. The line kept shifting and elongating as it remained fixed behind the sign.

Finally, 83-1 screeched to a pause in front of us; I was beginning to tire. I got a seat above the hump of the back wheel, promptly pulling out my sunglasses and settling in for the ride. The bus was already crowded because of the lengthy gap between this and the last bus, when people had time to pile up and each stop added more bodies than usual. This trip would be crowded. Two middle-aged ladies boarded and planted themselves in position to hover over my chair. At the crest of the road circling Namsan, the bus driver allowed an entire class of Kindergartners to fill all the teeny spaces remaining between adult bodies. The bus groaned.

It took a few minutes to get all those screaming kids on the bus. The bus was more crowded than I had ever witnessed; it was like the subway on a Saturday afternoon at Kyodae station where the bodies are packed so tight that the pressure of them all against one another keeps them vertical and possibly even some elevated from the floor. There is no stopping that kind of bodily momentum and as the vehicle sways to and fro, certain groups of bodies bear the weight of all the others more heavily and from those sections moans leak out like pressure from a cooker. That’s what it’s like on a train, where the movement is slight and rhythmic and turns are executed in long smooth arcs. But on the bus, which lurches forward to back every time the driver starts and stops, and which can turn unannounced at 90 degree angles, even when it’s empty, people are flung in all directions and cling desperately to loops, poles, and seat backs.

This afternoon, the bus filled beyond capacity, numerous adults held fast with their arms raised high above their heads--like they were in some kind of stick-up--to the few bars secured to the ceiling. The spaces around them oozed with noisy children who grabbed onto each other and to the seat backs, being that they were too short to reach the handles (which were all taken up by adults anyway). The bus jerked forward and the weight concentrated on the back, where the children’s screams rose a few decibals and several older women were heard to exhale, "Aigoo." And so it went, with all those big and little people flung in unison back and forth, to and fro, and the resulting pressure manifesting itself as various sorts of exclamations. The children bounced around freely for the most part, as there were not enough seats for them to hang on to, so that they rebounded off of the standing adults like some kind of twisted session of bumper cars.

They were cute, those kids, their voices high and playing. That is, until they noticed me and a few poked me with those little sticks with teeth on the end that open and close, like I was slug they’d discovered on the sidewalk; then they became annoying.

They finally got off in one great cacophonous exodus. It was crazy. Surviving adults sighed and expanded into the free space.

It wore me out - and I was sitting! I was totally fine until then, even thinking to myself that Spring and Fall are the best times to do anything in Korea; the times when all day outside isn’t tiring because one doesn’t freeze nor suffer heat exhaustion. And it was like: Boy, did I make the wrong choice or what?