Rush hour in a subway station, published in The Korea Times Nov. 1 1992. Korea Times Archive

There I was, my second week in Korea, sailing right along. My conversation classes at the language institute were going well. The split shift — 10 a.m. to noon and 6 p.m. to 10 p.m. — wasn’t nearly as brutal as I’d been warned. I’d even picked up enough Korean to get by day to day and had learned, through a bit of trial and error, that those bottles I thought were milk actually contained makgeolli, a traditional fermented Korean rice wine.

As I said — it was smooth sailing.

Until one fateful morning at Sincheon Station, now Jamsilsaenae Station on Seoul Metro Line 2.

In 1990, subway stations in Seoul operated with a system that felt both mechanical and reassuringly straightforward. The turnstiles consisted of an electronic ticket reader mounted on the right side and a set of waist-high steel bars that revolved when unlocked. Subway tickets were made of thin yellow cardboard, about the size of a stick of chewing gum — just a little shorter and flimsier.

Then President Kim Young-sam, right, goes through a subway turnstile, published in The Korea Times Oct. 31, 1993. Korea Times Archive

You’d insert the ticket into a narrow slot on the right side of the turnstile, and with a mechanical clunk, the bars would release, allowing you to push through. If memory serves, a single ride cost around 300 won. When I first arrived, my mentor — ever practical — helped me purchase an orange monthly pass for 10,000 won. It covered unlimited rides across the city, whether I was commuting to work or exploring unfamiliar corners of Seoul in those wide-eyed early days.

That morning, when I inserted the ticket into the slot, I didn’t hear the soft, reassuring electric whir. Instead, a harsh, grating buzzer blared through the station, echoing off the tile walls like an alarm announcing my failure. I had already stepped forward, expecting the revolving steel tubes to give way — but the moment the buzzer sounded, they locked in place just above my knees with unforgiving precision. The shock of the sound was bad enough — but the abrupt collision left me stumbling, trying to recover my dignity while absorbing what I’m sure were multiple contusions, all the while unintentionally testing Newton’s Third Law of Motion in the most public and painful way possible.

The ticket — the unseemly culprit in this minor disaster — popped out of a slot on top of the reader. I retrieved it and tried again, only to be met with the same grating buzzer and stubbornly locked steel tubes. Hoping that the third time would be the charm, I inserted the ticket once more. Of course, the results were identical.

Meanwhile, as I continued my battle with the turnstile in true Quixotic fashion, a quiet line of commuters had formed behind me, waiting with admirable patience for me to either succeed or surrender. Eventually, I backed out — perplexed, slightly panicked and clearly having a meltdown after being defeated by a machine — and waved the others ahead, allowing them to pass through as I stood there, clinging to my ticket and what was left of my dignity.

Source: Korea Times News