Final Leg
Our connection in Seoul to Busan would be the most harrowing moment of our trip here. Doing our best impression of sheeple, we joined the flow and kept moving onward to “transfer”.
While waiting for a tram to the passenger terminal, it was officially time to don our masks. Something that roughly 30% of people seemed to believe in.
We passed through security again, found a well hidden “Transfer Desk B”, and arrived at our gate to Busan.
On the short flight to Busan, we were treated to some Russian Orchestral music, the pleasure of filling out a health information card, and seats seemingly fit for only one butt cheek.
No matter though, the anticipation was palpable as we deplaned in Busan. No jetway of any sort, just a field of planes with buses to retrieve you.
We would face the trials of a health inspection and a customs checkpoint. At the latter, we had to give both our index fingerprints and our face to the camera. Jack Reacher would not approve.
Finally, the moment arrived. An audible yelp of anticipation was heard from mother as Sister descended upon us.
Kisses through masks are a little tougher, but hugs worked well enough.
Sister had considered taxis to take us to our lodgings, but the risk of splitting up was probably one better not taken.
Sister broke the news that we'd be staying in a 44th floor apartment. A fact that was inversely exciting with the number of years you've been on this planet.
Regardless, it’s got a great view.
