Swimming in boiling water

As we curved around the hillside corner, we saw it. The sea broke into two curling harbours, the water splashing into large boats and buoys in the distance, and one line of rooftops under our sneakers.

The fish market. We followed the staircase down and under the tops of the open-air shacks made into make shift diners. It was supper hour in the fresh blue blackness, locals sipping soju and picking at raw fish with chopsticks.

The owners of all the shops flagged us down with their two-to-three English phrases. We settled on one stand and were ushered into a table, kicked our shoes off and sat crossed legged.

She took us to the mass of overflowing baskets and asked us to pick out the fish we wanted. We shrugged and smiled, whispered we didn’t know the difference, pointed a finger and said, “Er, that one?”

The appetizers came first, still squirming with life when we poked them. Picked up a cut tentacle of an octopus, dipped in hot sauce and dropped in. He swam around my mouth, grabbing on to my lip and holding on for life as my teeth crunched him.

The fish came next, set raw beside our hot place of spicy soup and noodles. One cup of rice and bottle of cider, we slipped all our plates in and let it boil. The broth was delicious, the fish fresh, the bill expensive.

The table beside us called a cab for two foreigners and we headed off towards the hot springs.