The metro doors opened at Bundang Station and I stepped into what I can only describe as an accidental symphony. A street musician's saxophone was harmonizing—completely by chance—with someone's phone alarm three meters away. Both playing the same key. The odds felt astronomical, but there they were, creating this weird, perfect accident of sound that made about fifteen of us stop and look around like we'd stumbled into a flash mob.
I've been walking the same route from the station to the coffee district for three weeks now, and today I finally tried something different: took the western exit instead of eastern. Tiny change, completely different world. The western side has this narrow alley lined with persimmon trees that I had no idea existed. Some of the fruit had fallen and split open on the pavement, filling the whole passage with this sweet, almost fermented smell. A grandmother was sweeping them into a bucket.
"Waste to leave them," she said in Korean when she caught me staring, and I nodded even though I only understood half of it. She handed me one, perfectly ripe, and gestured for me to take it. I tried to politely refuse but she'd already turned back to her sweeping. I ended up eating it on a bench two blocks later—messy, sticky-fingered, probably looking ridiculous, but it was the best thing I'd tasted all week.