The Korea Times

The irresistible appeal of Korea's 'pojangmacha' food tents

Had I not gotten lost in Jamsil one cold December night, I might never have discovered the soul of Seoul. It was the early 1990s, and I decided to be adventurous and find a different way back to my apartment. Somewhere in the maze of Jamsil 2-danji, I got twisted around and ended up on a street I had never taken before. Getting lost there was surprisingly easy. At night, the apartment buildings all looked alike, row after row of concrete towers rising into the darkness. I knew the subway station was somewhere behind me and my apartment somewhere ahead. Beyond that, I was guessing. The December air had a bite to it. I shoved my hands deeper into my coat pockets and kept walking. Then I saw the orange glow. On the side of the street stood a rectangular tent, glowing in the darkness. Light filtered through thick orange plastic, turning it into a giant lantern. Shadows moved behind the vinyl. Every so often, someone lifted a flap, releasing a burst of steam and noise into the cold before ducking inside. I stopped. What was this place? There was no sign or name that I could see, yet people kep

2d agoBy Jeffrey Miller

[MORNING CALM TALES] The irresistible appeal of Korea's 'pojangmacha' food tents

The night I survived a terrorist attack

Twenty years ago, I said goodbye to Korea. At least, I thought I did. Within days, I found myself in a smoke-filled street in southern Thailand, surrounded by sirens, soldiers, emergency vehicles and people running for their lives. I had no idea that the road taking me away from Korea would eventually lead me right back. Without getting into all the circumstances behind my sudden departure from the Land of the Morning Calm for the Land of Smiles, several other teachers and I resigned from what had once been one of the best teaching jobs in Korea. For me, that chapter was over. I packed my bags and left, convinced Thailand would offer a fresh start. I had heard there might be teaching opportunities in southern Thailand, so I flew to Bangkok and then continued south to Hat Yai. I booked a few nights at the Novotel in the city center. Before looking for work, I planned to take a few days to rest and explore a part of Thailand I had never seen before. After checking in that Saturday afternoon, I went looking for something to eat. A market and department store were just down the street, with

Sep 16, 2026By Jeffrey Miller

[MORNING CALM TALES] The night I survived a terrorist attack

Descending into Korea's first PC bangs

The first time I went to a PC bang in Korea, it wasn’t for the internet. It was 1998, and I went with several of my students to play StarCraft, a game they raved about the way Americans talked about the Super Bowl. Like every other trend that swept the nation, PC bangs were appearing faster than a pop-up window on your computer screen. They were the cheapest way of accessing the internet in Korea, especially at the height of the Asian financial crisis. I knew what PC meant — personal computer. A bulky monitor and CPU that clicked and whirred, and occasionally froze for no reason. But “bang”? In Korea, bang means room, a simple word, functional and to the point. The PC bang we went to was located in a neighborhood of traditional shops, coffee houses, eateries, pharmacies and a traditional medicine shop with a strange-looking apparatus inside — less a pharmacy than a set piece from an old Frankenstein movie. The street was bright, with signs in Hangeul stacked like glowing dominoes. Food smells drifted through the air — dumplings, spicy rice cakes, charcoal and grilled meat — k

Sep 5, 2026By Jeffrey Miller

[MORNING CALM TALES] Descending into Korea's first PC bangs

The tree at Panmunjeom, 50 years later

On the morning of Aug. 18, 1976, a work detail entered the Joint Security Area (JSA) at Panmunjeom to perform what should have been a routine task: trimming the branches of a poplar tree. Within minutes, two U.S. Army officers were dead. Capt. Arthur Bonifas and 1st Lt. Mark Barrett were killed by North Korean guards during a confrontation that lasted only a few minutes. Several other American and South Korean members of the detail were also injured. This Aug. 18 marks the 50th anniversary of their deaths. The event became known as the Axe Murder Incident, one of the most infamous confrontations in the history of the Korean Demilitarized Zone (DMZ). I can still remember when it happened. In August 1976, I was in the U.S. Air Force attending technical training school when I first heard about the killings at Panmunjeom. Korea was far away, and I could not have imagined that the events unfolding there would remain with me for the next half-century. But 50 years later, I find myself returning once again to that tree. To understand what happened on Aug. 18, it is necessary to know what was diffe

Aug 18, 2026By Jeffrey Miller

[MORNING CALM TALES] The tree at Panmunjeom, 50 years later

Fan death, a cautionary breeze

My first summer in Korea, I thought I was going to die. The heat and the humidity were unbearable. I’d naively assumed that living near the Han River in southeastern Seoul might offer some cooling nighttime breeze. It didn’t. Not even a whisper. Fortunately, I had a fan — an old, rattling workhorse that labored through the night, valiantly pushing hot air from one side of my room to the other. It didn’t cool me, but it gave the illusion of doing something, which was better than nothing. The next morning, bleary-eyed after another sleepless night, I trudged off to school. At least the classrooms were air-conditioned, which felt like a miracle. “It was so hot last night, I slept with the fan on all night,” I said casually while taking attendance. A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room. I looked up. The entire class was frozen in horror, eyes wide, mouths agape, as if I had just confessed to something unspeakable. “What’s wrong?” I asked. A long pause. Then one brave student slowly raised her hand. “Yes?” “Teacher,” she said carefully, “you cannot sleep with

Aug 8, 2026By Jeffrey Miller

[MORNING CALM TALES] Fan death, a cautionary breeze

Master of mistaken identity

I lived a blissfully anonymous life in Seoul — at least, until I was mistaken for a member of Metallica. Not once, but twice. This was the 1990s, a time when Korea didn’t exactly host a who’s who of global music acts. Aside from the occasional megastar like Michael Jackson or pop juggernauts like New Kids on the Block or pop/rap phenom M.C. Hammer, most big names didn’t bother. Instead, we got aging rockers on their third or fourth comeback tours — bands like Uriah Heep or Deep Purple — and, oddly enough, 1950s crooner Paul Anka. No offense to “Diana,” but it wasn’t exactly the height of cutting-edge entertainment. So, when it was announced that Metallica was coming to Korea for two shows in April 1998, it was a big deal. I scored tickets the moment they went on sale. On the day of the concert, which was being held at one of the Olympic venues in Seoul’s Olympic Park, I met up with two of my colleagues, Ray Smith and Joe Blake. We arrived early and decided to grab a drink across the street at a Bennigan’s. At the time, I had shoulder-length hair and often wore a Me

Jul 31, 2026By Jeffrey Miller

[MORNING CALM TALES] Master of mistaken identity

'Ppi-ppi': Korea's brief pager fad in the '90s

Before phones lived in our pockets — before they glowed, chirped, hummed, vibrated, tracked us and reminded us of things we hadn’t yet forgotten — there was the pager. In Korea, it was commonly and affectionately called "ppi-ppi." That palm-sized device fit neatly into a brief moment in the technological scheme of things, nudging how we communicated — if only slightly — into the future. In Korea, ppi-ppi weren’t just devices. They let us be connected before we really understood what being connected would come to mean. Almost overnight, pager shops sprang up all over the city. There were at least a dozen in Sinchon alone, along the main drag leading down from Yonsei University — identical, brightly lit and impossible to miss, glowing late into the night. Young clerks stood just inside the doors, eager and alert, ready to usher you into the latest craze. Inside, glass display cases gleamed with rows of nearly identical ppi-ppi, arranged neatly in place, waiting like small, obedient creatures — each one promising that someone, somewhere, might soon be reaching out. Walking p

Jul 11, 2026By Jeffrey Miller

[MORNING CALM TALES] 'Ppi-ppi': Korea's brief pager fad in the '90s

The day I crashed a Korean War commemorative event

Seoul was already sweltering by midmorning on June 25, 2000. Heat rose in wavering sheets above the broad plaza outside the War Memorial of Korea as buses pulled up one after another, unloading elderly veterans of the Korean War (1950-53) alongside family members and foreign dignitaries arriving for the ceremony. Inside the memorial grounds, ushers guided guests toward rows of reserved seats while security personnel moved briskly through the growing crowd. Everywhere there were flags, cameras, police, military officers and the low murmur of Korean, English and a dozen other languages blending together in the heavy summer air. I was not supposed to be there. A month earlier, I had interviewed Gen. Paik Sun-yup for an article accompanying my review of his autobiography, "From Pusan to Panmunjom." After the interview, I met several members of the 50th anniversary committee organizing the Korean War commemorative ceremony at the War Memorial in Seoul. President Kim Dae-jung was scheduled to speak, along with military dignitaries, diplomats and veterans from around the world. And somehow, the

Jun 25, 2026By Jeffrey Miller

[MORNING CALM TALES] The day I crashed a Korean War commemorative event

The ride of a lifetime

The runway blurred beneath us. A second later, the afterburner ignited, and the F-16 surged forward with a force that pushed me deep into the seat. Rain streaked across the canopy as the jet roared down the runway at Osan Air Base in Pyeongtaek, Gyeonggi Province. Then the nose lifted and the ground dropped away. Within moments, we were climbing through the clouds. Strapped into the back seat, helmet on and oxygen mask tight against my face, I had a sudden thought that still seemed slightly unreal: Just days earlier, it was a classroom at Yonsei University, teaching English. Now it was the back seat of an F-16, one of the most advanced fighter jets ever built, punching through the clouds over the Korean Peninsula. The path that led to that cockpit began with a newspaper story. At the time, I was also working as a feature writer for The Korea Times, covering a variety of stories about the United States Forces Korea (USFK). One of them involved a dramatic rescue mission in the West Sea. Late one foggy night in February 2001, a pregnant Korean woman living on a small island near the Northern

Jun 6, 2026By Jeffrey Miller

[MORNING CALM TALES] The ride of a lifetime

Adventures on Seoul Metro’s Green Line

One of the quiet joys of my first two years in Seoul in the early 1990s was riding the subway to work each morning — a small ritual that became a kind of meditation. Back home in America, I’d always driven everywhere, cocooned in my car, my own music filling the air, convinced that the steering wheel offered some illusion of control. But in Seoul, I surrendered to the rhythm of the city. I was just another passenger in the great underground artery, moving in step with thousands of strangers whose lives brushed briefly against mine. Every morning, I rode Line 2 — the Green Line — which looped underneath this great city, surfacing twice to cross the Han River in brief shimmers of daylight before diving back underground. It was my first real acquaintance with Seoul, an introduction not through its streets or skyline but through its pulse belowground. Back then, there were only a few lines crisscrossing the city — including Line 1 (red, now dark blue), Line 3 (orange) and Line 4 (blue) — but the Green Line was mine. It carried me to work, through new neighborhoods, and deeper i

May 16, 2026By Jeffrey Miller

Morning Calm Tales