OUT OF EDEN WALK

We were walking the Yeongnamdaero, the Old Scholars’ Road that once linked the South Korean cities of Seoul and Busan. For 500 years, from the 14th to the late 19th centuries, young men—always men—plodded the rugged, 600-kilometer track to take government exams at the Joseon court, hoping to obtain sinecures as clerks of a Confucian empire. Back then, the road was made of mud and stone and, sometimes, timber walkways. Aristocrats in tall stovepipe hats that protected their topknots rode saddled mounts along the road, moving in long caravans of soldiers and courtiers. Peasants encountered on the “royal” road were fined and shoved aside—including off cliffs. We would have been too.

Today the Yeongnamdaero is largely vanished. Erased like so many ancient features in Korea. Wiped away by a war that pulverized the built environment in the 1950s. Paved over more recently by a dizzying economic boom.

A local historian showed us a stretch of horse trail carved into the forested hillside. I placed my hand on its stones polished to a high gloss by hooves. This relict trail petered out at a parking lot. Beyond the parking lot boomed a highway. There was a café along the highway. Photo-realistic murals of Manhattan circa 1995 decorated its walls. Paris themed bric-a-brac packed the counters. Ceramic ashtrays. A miniature Eiffel tower. South Korea is a landscape afflicted with amnesia, I told myself, sipping an iced Americano. It was all right, though. Many places have it.