Dispatch from Busan, South Korea

Having grown up in Shanghai and Hong Kong—both electric, restless Asian cities—I was drawn to Seoul throughout my twenties. It ran on the same current I’d always known. Gangnam’s pink and blue neon signs stack several stories high, their glow spilling onto streets packed with crowds; Hongdae’s bars tremble with bass while laughter rings out from chimaek (chicken and beer) joints; and lines trail out the door of Seongsu’s stylish cafes, all raw concrete and exposed brick. Meanwhile, Busan—South Korea’s second-largest city, at its southeastern tip—had always hovered at the periphery for me, a city filed under the “maybe someday” list.

Now that I’m in my thirties, and post-pandemic, I find a destination without throngs of tourists more appealing than ever. Add: slow, coastal, breezy, and unfussy, and it sounds right up my alley. My husband and I were already planning a spring trip to Seoul, so when it came time to tag on a few extra days, Busan—a port city dotted with beaches—suddenly fit the bill.

My prior knowledge of Busan was sparse, and embarrassingly, the city’s name conjured up only one thing in my mind for years: Train to Busan, the 2016 South Korean thriller in which a zombie outbreak tears through a KTX train speeding south from Seoul. But it was one of the first films my husband and I bonded over early in our relationship—we’d even ducked out to a drive-in theater during the pandemic to catch the sequel. So, when we finally boarded our own 2.5-hour train to Busan in March, I couldn’t resist grinning and nudging him, giddy as a kid.

Since then, I’ve come to understand Busan as the place where South Korea opens to the sea. Through the long centuries of the Joseon dynasty, it was one of the only ports sanctioned to trade with Japan, never losing its outward gaze even when war washed up on its shores. When the North Korean army swept through the south during the Korean War, Busan became the country’s last refuge and wartime capital. Refugees poured in by the hundreds of thousands and built shanties across the hillside, which gradually evolved into the tightly-packed, painted houses of Gamcheon Culture Village, draping the slopes like a pastel quilt. And yet, an air of calm runs through the city today. Seasoned by salt and wind, Busan seems to shrug at the glitzy capital city up north and say, you do your thing, and we’ll do ours.

We arrived at Busan Station just as the mid-afternoon sun blazed overhead. An Uber driver took us to our hotel, and as we drew closer, the city began to unveil itself: the harbor peppered with cranes and stacked shipping containers; fishing boats swaying and bobbing; the sea glistening and vast. Onshore, a few blocks carried the same colorful tangle of store signs we’d seen in Seoul—only the streets were narrower and the buildings a few stories shorter. Some taller ones broke the skyline here and there, but the city mostly stayed low, hugging the winding coast. 

YEONGDO

We spent the first afternoon on Yeongdo, a small island just across the harbor, reachable on foot or by car over the Yeongdo Bridge. It’s not Busan’s liveliest neighborhood, and feels more like an area in transition: an islet of shipyards and docks where a new wave of creatives and coffee houses has settled in. The juxtaposition of old and new is palpable: the Instagrammable, immersive Arte Museum lies just up the road from National Maritime Museum of Korea, a tribute to the country’s seafaring past. 

Craving a pick-me-up, we stopped in at Momos Yeongdo Roastery & Coffee Bar—one of several outposts across Busan, each with its own distinct design. This one, a converted warehouse, opened up floor to ceiling; cavernous, modern, and drenched in light. A low stomach rumble soon reminded us we’d skipped lunch. Coffee in hand, we weaved back through the neighborhood and stumbled upon Samgubsal, a BBQ spot that shares its name with the dish it serves: samgyeopsal, thick strips of pork belly ribboned with fat and lean meat. The restaurant was nearly empty, just us and two older men bantering over a bottle of soju, but the food was phenomenal. The lone server filled our table with banchan (side dishes): perilla leaves and burdock root, white kimchi, a bowl of nutty samjang for dipping, and cold noodles tossed in gochujang. He grilled the pork belly himself, turning each sizzling piece with tongs until the smell of garlic and char swirled around us. 

With full bellies, we set out to walk off the meal along the water. By the time we reached the waterfront, dusk was rolling in and the empty parking spaces had filled up with open-air grills; yellow awnings lined side-by-side and red plastic chairs waiting for anyone who’d swing by. Smoke curled off the coals as different groups settled in: a mother with her son and his oversized backpack; a couple leaning into each other; a cluster of coworkers blowing off the day’s steam. Had we not already stuffed ourselves with samgyeopsal, we might have pulled up a chair for a second dinner.

HAEUNDAE

The next day, we had a beautiful lunch at Haemok Haeundae, where every set arrived looking like a work of art. My husband ordered the unagi they’re known for, while I went for the sake-don—some of the freshest salmon sashimi I’ve ever had. The best part was the ritual: each table came with a manual walking you step by step through how to prepare and eat your meal. 

Haeundae sits about half an hour up the coast, and we were in no hurry to be anywhere. After lunch, we wandered down Haeundae Market—a narrow alley that reminded me of some of the Taiwanese night markets I once visited—past great vats of kimchi and out toward Busan’s sandy stretch: Haeundae Beach. A group of friends had a volleyball game going, drawing a loose ring of spectators, and we slowed our steps too to gauge which team might win. In the distance, the sand stretched on for another mile.

We’d meant to ride the sky capsules of Blueline Park—the little coastal pods that glide along an elevated track toward Cheongsapo like a string of jellybeans—but scrambled to book same-day tickets and found every seat gone. (Learn from us: reserve ahead.) So we climbed instead, up toward The Barn, panting a little harder with each turn as the view behind us unfurled wider and bluer. Having once lived in Berlin ourselves, we hadn’t expected to stumble on a nostalgic piece of it here, especially in a hushed residential neighborhood.

For lodging, Haeundae claims the lion’s share of the luxury hospitality scene, with sprawling sea views. The Signiel Busan sits high up in the city’s tallest tower, LCT, right beside the beach. On the Marine City waterfront, the Park Hyatt Busan has a glittering view of the Gwangan Bridge at night. And if you want the beach lifestyle without the Haeundae bustle, After Chapter is a more boutique option on the next beach over at Gwangalli.

NAMPO & JEONPO

One of Busan’s greatest hits is Jagalchi Market, South Korea’s largest fish market. On our way to spend our last day in Jeonpo, we detoured through Nampo to take a look. (If you’d rather stay downtown, the boutique Good Ol’ Days sits in Nampo and is an easy walk from Jagalchi Market and Yongdusan Park).

Inside, women fishmongers in rubber aprons—mostly ajummas (middle-aged women, or more endearingly, aunties)—stood beside tanks of thrashing fish, eel, king crabs, and sea squirts. To my delight, when an octopus slithered slowly up the glass and nearly made its escape, one of the women reached over, without looking up, and plopped it back in. As soon as we lingered for a second, menus started appearing from every direction, each fishmonger promising us the tastiest rendition of the day’s catch. “Grilled? Steamed? Simmered into a stew?”

But I had something else in mind: dwaeji gukbap, a milky pork-and-rice soup born out of the Korean War that locals swear by for hangovers or a chilly day. At Suyeong Bonga, we burned our mouths on the scalding broth and piled on kimchi from the bottomless self-serve table until our bowls glowed red—and my husband and I promised each other we’d find a way to master this recipe at home.

If the general verdict on Busan is that it’s rugged, Jeonpo is where the city shows its glossier side. We spent our last day here, in the inland district that the twenty-something crowd has claimed—a grid of old machine shops and hardware stores now redesigned into roasteries, boutiques, and bakeries. Ranked #38 on the 2025 World’s 100 Best Coffee Shops, Strut Coffee was the obvious hotspot, but as two people allergic to lines, we veered off toward Hytte Roastery instead, its Bauhaus-inspired interior design a gorgeous riot of red, green, and blue and its line thankfully short. From there, we let our curiosity pull us into darling stationary stores like Poset, and Balansa, a boutique of streetwear and charming clutter. 

Looking back, we could have planned those last hours a dozen other ways. Instead, we wandered, drank too much coffee, and ate more than we’re used to—and it struck me that this was exactly what we’d come for. Seoul had my twenties, but I suspect Busan will have my thirties, and hopefully well beyond.