Korea JoongAng Daily - Daily News from Korea

This article is by Sarah Chea and read by an artificial voice.

Korea is moving to import Venezuelan crude for the first time in 23 years, despite the oil's notoriously difficult refining profile compared to conventional grades. The planned resumption comes as Seoul is seeking to reduce its reliance on Middle Eastern oil following the Iran conflict.

The need aligns with Venezuela's own push to expand crude exports after U.S. sanctions were eased following the capture of then-President Nicolás Maduro in January.

Korea's major oil refiners, SK Energy and HD Hyundai Oilbank, are considering bringing in roughly 400,000 tons of Venezuelan crude for test refining, which would still be less than 0.04 percent of Korea's annual crude imports.

Korea National Oil Corporation is also tapping the barrel, with Vice Industry Minister Moon Shin-hak saying that "import results are expected to materialize soon," even as Seoul has refrained from procuring Russian crude.

Korea plans to blend Venezuelan heavy crude with lighter grades, including U.S. oil, before refining it for domestic use.

Despite possessing the world's largest proven oil reserves with 303 billion barrels, Venezuela produces one of the least desirable heavy crude grades on the market. Its oil is exceptionally viscous and laden with impurities even by heavy-crude standards, making refining both technically demanding and costly.

Korea has not imported Venezuelan crude even once since 2003, when elevated global oil prices briefly made such purchases economically viable.

The move also reflects Seoul's intention to leverage Korea's highly advanced refining infrastructure to test the commercial viability of Venezuelan crude, as it scrambles to diversify its oil supply and cut overreliance on the Middle East.

Roughly 80 percent of Korea's crude imports came from the Middle East as of last year, with nearly all of it — about 99 percent — transiting through the Strait of Hormuz.

"Since the 1970s, Korea has pursued a strategy of importing inexpensive heavy crude from the Middle East while investing heavily in advanced upgrading facilities capable of refining it," said Chang Tae-hun of the Korea Energy Economics Institute.

"That expertise has advanced to the point where refiners can extract gasoline even from residual fuels such as asphalt feedstock and heavy fuel oils," Chang added.

In fact, three of Korea's four refiners — SK Energy, GS Caltex, and S-Oil — operate three of the five largest single-site refineries on Earth.

The ratio of heavy-oil upgrading capacity to crude distillation units (CDU) — a key measure of refining sophistication — stands at 42 percent for, 39 percent for S-Oil, 34 percent for GS Caltex and 25 percent for SK Energy, according to Korea Ratings. That's twice the global average of 10 to 15 percent.

HD Hyundai Oilbank is the only company operating a delayed coker unit at its Daesan refinery in South Chungcheong, which thermally cracks heavy crude and even waste plastics at extremely high temperatures to produce refined petroleum products.

However, Venezuelan crude is unlikely to emerge as a mainstream feedstock for Korean refiners.

"Given that it is also a heavy crude grade, it is true that refiners are indeed considering Venezuelan oil as a possible substitute for Middle Eastern crude," said a source at a major Korean refining company. "But the prospects appear limited as Korea has not imported it for such a long time that consistency and quality reliability remain significant concerns."

Logistics also present a disadvantage: While crude shipments from the Middle East typically take about two weeks to reach Korea, cargoes from South America — routed either through the Panama Canal or around the Cape of Good Hope — require more than 30 days in transit.

Vice Industry Minister Moon also said it was "one option among broader diversification efforts" but unlikely to serve as a primary supply source, given the "technical limitations and blending requirements" involve...

This article is by Joel Down and read by an artificial voice.

The night before I set out for Seoul — an 8,900-kilometer (5,500-mile) trek as the crow flies — I was sharing a beer with friends on a rooftop in London. As the fire pit crackled between us, one of them relayed his girlfriend's reaction to my plans.

"What's wrong with the bloke — can't he just take a plane?"

"Really? So she thinks I'm mad."

"We all do, but it's the right kind of madness," he assured me.

At least I was well-prepared.

Armed with a 70-liter (18.5-gallon) slash-proof backpack, a spare phone, a spreadsheet of expenses, a laptop and a long list of bookings, I had done the legwork. Many of the finer points had been fleshed out with AI, which could even find the email addresses of niche transport companies when I needed them. The legitimacy of this research was called into question, however, when I asked Copilot to create a map of my very linear route. It drew a giant circle from "Londan" to "Incheen," even suggesting I take a ship through mainland Russia.

London to Milan

For now, all I had to do was catch the 9:33 a.m. Eurostar to Paris. I found my way to the elegant redbrick facade of London St. Pancras Station, hugged my mum tightly and assured us both that everything would be okay.

There is hardly a better train to demonstrate the possibilities of rail travel than one that goes under the sea and connects two European capitals in less time than you can read Baudelaire's "Les Fleurs de Mal" (1857). The Eurostar is perhaps the continent's smoothest operator, with air conditioning, upholstered furnishings and an iconic lick of paint.

I took my seat next to a family who were quizzing each other on Premier League footballers.

"Odegaard or Saka?" The father asked his son.

"Saka, obviously!" Came the reply.

They supported Arsenal, my football team, which felt like a good omen.

Setting out from low-lying Paris, my next train would tilt the journey skyward, eventually hitting 1,050 meters (3,445 feet) at the border town of Modane in the French Alps before burrowing through the mountains and striding past Bardonecchia, an Italian town nestled at the foot of a vast ridge. This part of the ride is particularly inspiring, with the tracks veering toward cloud-capped peaks and overlooking deep valleys awash with urban lights.

I leaned into the window as dusk stole through the valley and the train began its slow descent toward Milan, the industrial and fashion capital of Italy.

Milan comes at you all tangled tramlines, concrete sculptures and speeding sedans. However, behind the bravado, I found it to be a friendly, sentimental, even peaceful city. I bought a piadina — an Italian flatbread — the next day, and spent a few hours taking in unusual sights like Bosco Verticale, a "living" skyscraper draped in trees.

I then returned to Milano Centrale and boarded my train to the coast. Another high-speeder, it glided past emerald vineyards, sloping hills and industrial tracts before shooting above a forest canopy and inching toward the northeastern Italian port city of Trieste. Views from the dining car were dazzling in this last stretch; the broad surface of the Adriatic Sea looked like a sheet of blue silk, ruffled by the wind.

Trieste to Zagreb

I spent the morning in Trieste, drinking coffee and discovering some local sites, including a home built with vinegar instead of water in the mortar — above the door is a sculpture of three eagles tearing apart a snake, symbolizing the defeat of the French emperor Napoleon by Russia, Prussia and Austria.

However, the hostel stay brought me down to earth with a bump. It was unsettling to be staying in such places again after so many years without having to deal with loud snoring or moldy rooms. Sure enough, there was a sadness about the hostel in Trieste, where lonely men sat in the bar watching late-night basketball, and the staff swore at people for leaving the door open.

It was not like I had a choice in the matter. My esti...

This article is by Seo Ji-eun and read by an artificial voice.

Park Sung-jae, an MC, has spent 24 years hosting children's events, which used to be lively days full of outdoor activities and kids joyfully expressing themselves.

However, these days, the first thing he does at a school sports day is to have the kids say "sorry."

"We're sorry. We'll only play for a little while today," a group of about 100 elementary students in Daegu chanted in unison, facing the apartment blocks adjacent to their school before their sports day started.

The video spread widely across the country — and the size of the school it captured reflects Korea's 0.8 total fertility rate, the world's lowest. But despite the country's desperate need for more children, it is growing less tolerant of the ones it has.

Before nearly every sports day, schools give Park the same instruction: Keep the volume down.

Speakers get angled away from nearby apartment blocks, and when that isn't enough, police get called or residents walk onto school grounds mid-event to pull the plug themselves — a far cry from the days when a school sports day was considered a neighborhood celebration, drawing curious onlookers from the surrounding streets.

For many schools, the logical conclusion has been to move sports day indoors altogether, where no one outside can hear them.

What was once a place where children grew up together — through running about, competing and sharing experiences both in and out of the classroom — is increasingly becoming a stripped-down service operation, experts say, one that would rather do less than risk a complaint.

No more first place

According to a teacher in Gwacheon, Gyeonggi, who has taught for 27 years, individual footraces — where children used to get their hands stamped 1st, 2nd or 3rd — are gone.

"Now the point is simply that every child crosses the finish line," said Kim, who asked to be identified only by her surname.

Awards and prizes in the classroom have been phased out too, after parents complained that losing hurt their children's confidence.

Group performances — such as traditional fan dances that classes once rehearsed for months — have also disappeared following parent complaints that the preparation cut into class time.

With teachers unwilling to absorb the risk of organizing events themselves, many schools now outsource the entire day to private event companies.

Activities outside school have fared worse.

A parent of two children in Seocho District, southern Seoul, surnamed Cho, said her son's elementary school no longer runs any off-campus trips at all.

Cho's son started elementary school just as the Covid-19 pandemic hit, and by the time restrictions lifted, the climate around teacher liability had already changed. Consequently, he has never been on a school field trip in his entire six years of elementary school.

"He saw his older sister — four years ahead of him — pack lunchboxes for day trips, go on overnight excursions and do father-and-child camping through school, so he had high hopes," Cho said. "But he is quite disappointed he's never been able to go somewhere on a bus with his classmates."

A quarter ran day trips only, and 7.2 percent had stopped all forms of off-campus activity.

Of those surveyed, 89.6 percent said they were anxious about the prospect of criminal liability if an accident occurred.

The constant fear of lawsuits is also taking a toll on teachers' morale.

"Many of us jokingly say that our retirement is not in our own hands, but in the hands of the students and parents we happen to meet," Kim said. Kim herself developed a vestibular disorder this year that she attributes to stress.

Teachers alone take the fall

Park Nam-gi, a professor emeritus of education of Gwangju National University of Education, traces the problem to how liability is structured.

In medicine and other professions, institutions absorb much of the legal risk when something goes wrong — however, teachers in Korea do not have that b...

This article is by Woo Ji-won and read by an artificial voice.

Got buried alive.

Don't worry. I'm still breathing. It's all part of one of Korea's latest wellness trends, the enzyme spa, a Japan-born treatment now gaining traction among young people in Korea looking to cleanse from the inside out.

Over the past few months, I have seen posts, mostly from women in their 30s, submerged up to their necks in enzyme mixtures, sweating out as a "better" alternative to saunas for detoxifying and improving skin.

It looked like the most interesting, or perhaps bizarre, wellness trend I'd come across in a while. So there I was, stripped down to a hair cap and disposable underwear, preparing to be buried on purpose.

And trust me, it wasn't easy to book. Many places in Seoul were fully booked for weeks, a sign of just how popular the treatment has become.

After several calls, I secured a slot at a spa in Gangnam District, southern Seoul, that has been running for over a decade.

Once I was seated, a staff member in a sauna shirt gave me a quick rundown of what an enzyme spa is. The 65,000 won ($45) treatment basically uses rice bran and other ingredients — in this case, four, including green tea and Siberian ginseng — to produce natural heat of around 60 to 70 degrees Celsius (140 to 158 degrees Fahrenheit) through fermentation. The warmth, produced without artificial heat, is said to improve circulation, flush out toxins, enhance skin health and reduce swelling.

She then guided me to a locker room that looked like a mini sauna. While some enzyme spas have visitors wear sauna clothes or something to cover the body for the treatment, I was told to remove everything but a hair cap and underwear, both of which were provided. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I couldn't help but laugh, a little out of embarrassment, though I was alone.

After changing, I stepped into what would be today's "wellness" — a dimly lit space where four deep wooden boxes sat on worn floors. The air was humid but not overwhelming.

And the enzyme smell wasn't as bad as I expected. Some people compared it to fermented soybean paste, but to me it smelled more like warm barley tea.

A staff member guided me to one of the boxes, where a human-shaped indentation had already been prepared. From afar, it could be mistaken for someone climbing into their own casket, waiting for a henchman to shovel the dirt. Part of me played along, lying down and putting on a face of mixed emotions.

I was completely covered, with only my face out to breathe.

The temperature hovered around 62 or 63 degrees Celsius, which felt nice and toasty at first. Earlier in the day, it can reach up to 70 degrees. The texture was soft like sand dough.

"You can take your arms out if it gets too suffocating," the staff member said, before setting a 15-minute timer and leaving the room. Pssh, I'll be fine, I thought. Some places even go for 20 minutes or more.

For the first few minutes, it was really fine. Warm like being inside a dry sauna.

After some time, though, the heat crept in and became quite suffocating. With the enzyme weighing on me, my chest started to feel heavy, a new and deeply uncomfortable sensation.

My heels started to hurt as well, which the staff later explained was due to pressure points where blood vessels pass through. My hands and feet also grew hotter than the rest, which she said happens to areas with poorer circulation. It made sense, as mine usually run cold.

But with nothing to do, my mind, dramatic as ever, quickly drifted to worst-case scenarios. Having the room to myself had felt lucky at first, but the claustrophobia crept in fast.

Then thankfully, the staff member came in to check on me.

"How much time is left?" I asked. "Five minutes," she said, already turning her back on me. I wanted to ask more questions, anything to keep her there, but she was out the door before I could.

And I think she may have lied, because those five minutes felt much longer than the 10 minu...

The author is a writer and senior fellow at the Institute for Social and Economic Research.

On May 11, 1997, in New York, Garry Kasparov struggled to conceal his anxiety before a packed audience and live television cameras. The Russian chess grandmaster, regarded as one of the greatest players in history and world champion from 1985 to 2000, was facing an unusually formidable opponent: Deep Blue, IBM's chess-specialized supercomputer.

Kasparov had already defeated Deep Blue the previous year, winning three games with two draws and one loss. It had not been easy, but he remained confident. When the two met again in 1997, however, the machine had evolved. After five tense matches, the score stood at one win, three draws and one loss. In the decisive sixth game, Deep Blue played white and took the initiative.

Kasparov chose the Caro-Kann Defense in an attempt to regain control. Deep Blue responded aggressively, sacrificing a knight to tear through his defenses. The match ended in shock. Only 19 moves into the game, Kasparov resigned.

The result stunned the world, including Kasparov himself. Immediately after the match, he argued that several of Deep Blue's moves appeared "too human," raising suspicions that another grandmaster might have assisted the machine during play. For years afterward, he reflected on the defeat with bitterness.

"It was a deeply humiliating experience," Kasparov later said. "I was representing humanity against a machine, and I lost. It still hurts when I think about it."

Yet Kasparov's loss proved not to be an ending, but the beginning of something larger. Today, ordinary smartphones possess more computing power than Deep Blue. Even the ancient board game of Go, long considered a final bastion of human intelligence, fell in March 2016 when Google DeepMind's AlphaGo defeated Korean Go master Lee Se-dol.

AI has since advanced beyond games. AI systems can now write essays, generate paintings and compose music with increasing sophistication. Tasks once believed to require uniquely human creativity are no longer beyond the reach of machines.

Kasparov himself has also reconsidered the meaning of that historic defeat. In a 2024 interview, he reflected on the match differently from how he had in the immediate aftermath.

"In 1997, I thought it was a curse," he said. "Now I think it was a blessing, because I became part of something truly special."

That "special event" continues to unfold today. Humanity is living through the transformation that Kasparov first confronted across a chessboard nearly three decades ago. The speed and scale of AI's advance suggest that the debate surrounding it can no longer remain superficial. More serious and deeper discussions are becoming unavoidable.

This article was originally written in Korean and translated by a bilingual reporter with the help of generative AI tools. It was then edited by a native English-speaking editor. All AI-assisted translations are reviewed and refined by our newsroom.

The author is the economy news editor of the JoongAng Ilbo.

Comedian Lee Su-ji has recently earned praise not only as an entertainer but almost as a cultural anthropologist. Through her YouTube channel "Hot Issue Ji," she has built an audience of more than 1.3 million subscribers by exposing the vanity and status obsession embedded in Korean society.

In one skit, Lee plays an unruly hospital patient who casually boasts to a nurse, "My son works at SK hynix." Moments later, her son appears wearing a clumsy-looking work vest with a taped-on SK hynix logo — recently depicted as the ultimate blind date outfit.

The joke resonated because the controversy surrounding bonuses at SK hynix is no longer just a business issue. The image of ordinary office workers suddenly becoming multimillionaires has become a constant topic across YouTube and social media.

The debate began in February when SK hynix distributed massive profit-sharing bonuses to employees. The company removed the ceiling on performance incentives and decided to distribute 10 percent of annual operating profit to workers. Fueled by the semiconductor boom driven by AI, some employees reportedly received bonuses approaching two and a half times their annual base salary.

Attention has now shifted to this year's potential payouts. Securities analysts forecast that SK hynix could post operating profits exceeding 250 trillion won ($171 billion) this year. If 10 percent of that amount were divided among roughly 35,000 employees, the average payout could theoretically approach 700 million won per worker, calculations that have fueled heated online discussion.

On social media, some have joked that spending just a few years at SK hynix now resembles winning the lottery. Korea has long celebrated the "salaryman myth" — employees rising from humble beginnings to become CEOs earning enormous salaries. But the idea of an entire work force suddenly receiving life-changing wealth is almost unprecedented in Korea's industrial history.

Employees at Samsung Electronics, which posted even larger sales and profits than SK hynix, were unlikely to remain silent. Labor tensions there have intensified, with unions threatening a general strike while negotiating with management. Complaints about compensation are spreading across other industries as well.

In Silicon Valley, compensation packages worth 500 million won to 1 billion won annually — roughly $345,000 to $690,000 — are common for top engineers, according to the Korea Corporate Governance Forum. But such rewards are reserved for core talent. Compensation systems in the United States are designed around individual performance, strategic value and the risk of losing workers to competitors. Even within the same team, salaries can differ severalfold.

As AI investment intensifies into what many describe as an arms race, competition for talent has become fiercer. Stories circulating in Silicon Valley include Meta Platforms offering compensation packages reportedly worth $100 million annually to recruit key researchers from OpenAI, while Microsoft reportedly hired researchers away from Google DeepMind with multimillion-dollar offers. At the same time, thousands of workers left behind in the AI transition have lost their jobs.

That is why the SK hynix controversy extends beyond simple envy. It raises difficult questions about fairness and compensation. Who deserves massive bonuses more: longtime workers who devoted decades to the company since its days as Hyundai Electronics, or recently hired employees benefiting from today's semiconductor boom?

The issue reflects a deeper challenge to Korea's traditional compensation culture, where workers collectively shared both success and hardship.

Unfortunately, there is no perfect answer. Neither SK hynix's approach nor Silicon Valley's model offers a complete solution. Even Oliver Hart, the Harvard economist who won the Nobel Prize for research on contracts and incentives, argued in "Firms, Contracts,...

The author is a senior columnist at the JoongAng Ilbo.

The "butterfly effect" refers to the idea that a tiny change can trigger an unforeseen upheaval. The concept emerged from the work of meteorologist Edward Lorenz, who in 1961 entered rounded data into an early computer model and ended up with weather patterns completely different from his original forecast. He later popularized the theory through a lecture asking whether "the flap of a butterfly's wings in Brazil could set off a tornado in Texas."

Though rooted in natural science, the idea also resonates with concepts long embedded in religion and human society: karma and reincarnation in Buddhism and Hinduism, or the Korean notions that one reaps what one sows, that virtue is rewarded and evil punished and that fortune can reverse in an instant. For ordinary people, the thought of "what if things had gone differently then?" has long served as a source of regret, consolation and self-justification.

The butterfly effect is also a useful lens through which to understand history, especially politics and elections, where countless variables collide.

One notable example was the so-called hair-pulling woman incident inside the Unified Progressive Party in 2012, when the party held 13 seats as the nation's second-largest opposition force. During an internal dispute, a young woman grabbed the hair of the party leader during a meeting. The moment was captured by JoongAng Ilbo photographer Cho Yong-chul. The image — showing the woman's furious stare and the distorted face of the party leader — won Korea's top press photography award that year.

Repeatedly replayed by the media, the photograph fueled a broader perception of the party as violent and extreme. The political tornado that followed eventually led to a split that created the Justice Party, and two and a half years later, the Unified Progressive Party was dissolved by a Constitutional Court ruling and disappeared.

The June 3 local elections and parliamentary by-elections could likewise produce unexpected butterfly effects.

The ruling bloc is focusing heavily on the Daegu mayoral race between Kim Boo-kyum of the Democratic Party (DP) and Choo Kyung-ho of the People Power Party (PPP). One DP lawmaker said that if Kim, a former prime minister, succeeds in the conservative stronghold of Daegu, he would become the first DP mayor in the city's history.

The implications could extend beyond local government. Since the mayoral term ends in June 2030, near the next presidential election, the DP would gain a rare potential presidential contender with experience governing both the Gyeongsang region and Daegu. Another ruling party lawmaker noted that all three liberal presidents since Kim Dae-jung — Roh Moo-hyun, Moon Jae-in and Lee Jae Myung — were born in the Gyeongsang region.

The Busan Buk-A district by-election, where Ha Jung-woo of the DP, Park Min-sik of the PPP and independent candidate Han Dong-hoon are competing, may also reshape future politics. If Han, expelled from the PPP under leader Jang Dong-hyeok, survives politically in the Gyeongsang region, the conservative power structure could be shaken. Together with Lee Jun-seok, another conservative figure pushed aside under the former Yoon Suk Yeol administration, Han could emerge as part of a new conservative axis.

The race in Pyeongtaek involving Cho Kuk of the Rebuilding Korea Party, Kim Yong-nam and Yoo Eui-dong may also carry wider consequences. Although merger talks once circulated between the DP and the Rebuilding Korea Party, Kim and Cho are now attacking each other rather than jointly confronting Yoo, a strong local conservative figure.

Some interpret the contest as a proxy battle between Cho, who seeks to rebuild his standing after a scandal involving his children's academics through a parliamentary comeback, and DP leader Jung Chung-rae, who aims to strengthen the party's future dominance.

Above all, June 3 may become another turning point in Korean politics. I...

North Korean troops marched in Russia's Victory Day parade for the first time in Moscow's Red Square on Friday, underscoring how relations between Pyongyang and Moscow are evolving beyond wartime cooperation into what increasingly resembles a military alliance.

Among the roughly 11,000 North Korean troops reportedly dispatched to support Russia in the Ukraine war, more than 2,000 are believed to have been killed. Against that backdrop, the appearance of North Korean soldiers in the parade carried symbolic significance, publicly demonstrating the growing military alignment between the two countries.

Additional developments point in the same direction. Russian President Vladimir Putin reportedly awarded medals in secret to North Korean generals involved in operations in Kursk. Last month, Russia also sent its defense minister and lower house speaker to Pyongyang for the opening ceremony of a memorial complex honoring fallen North Korean troops. The relationship between the two countries is rapidly evolving into something far closer to a formal military partnership.

The growing military cooperation is already creating direct security concerns on the Korean Peninsula. North Korea is accumulating battlefield experience in drone operations, artillery tactics and electronic warfare through the Ukraine conflict. Concerns are also rising that Russian technical assistance may be helping Pyongyang develop a North Korean version of the K9 self-propelled howitzer, reportedly set for deployment near the front line within the year. Such a move would increase pressure on the Seoul metropolitan area.

North Korea has also amended its Constitution to formally reject denuclearization and reinforce its status as a nuclear weapons state.

At such a serious moment, signs of strain within the South Korea-U.S. alliance are troubling. Controversy has emerged over restrictions on intelligence sharing related to North Korea, while command gaps have been exposed by the monthlong absence of the deputy commander of U.S. Forces Korea.

Concerns are also growing that U.S. President Donald Trump could discuss North Korea directly with China during a summit with Chinese President Xi Jinping while sidelining Seoul. If the North Korean nuclear issue becomes merely another bargaining chip among major powers, the consequences for South Korea's security could be severe.

That is why the meeting between Defense Minister Ahn Gyu-back and U.S. Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth carries unusual importance. The government must quickly restore trust within the alliance and normalize intelligence-sharing mechanisms.

South Korea must also strengthen independent deterrence capabilities while carefully weighing any U.S. request related to military operations in the Strait of Hormuz. The marching boots in Red Square are warning of a changing security order. Seoul must respond with concrete action centered on both rebuilding the alliance and strengthening its own defense posture.

This article was originally written in Korean and translated by a bilingual reporter with the help of generative AI tools. It was then edited by a native English-speaking editor. All AI-assisted translations are reviewed and refined by our newsroom.

This article is by Oh Hyo-jeong and read by an artificial voice.

In an era of high fuel prices, even a small discount goes a long way — enough to keep some gas stations overflowing with cars.

On May 7, a typical Thursday afternoon, cars streamed in and out of a self-service gas station in Sindaebang-dong in southern Seoul — the spot known to be the cheapest in the city.

The gasoline price per liter was 1,969 won ($5.14 per gallon). Its price was about 50 won lower than that at nearby stations.

Even during a typically slower time of day, more than half the station's 12 pumps were in constant use. Those who balked at prices from nearby stations turned around and headed to the spot.

"I used to fill up once every three days, but with prices rising almost daily, I now come every two days," said a driver surnamed Kim. "These days, I keep an eye out for cheaper stations when I'm on the road and go out of my way to find them."

At another self-service station in Singil-dong of Yeongdeungpo District in western Seoul, cars line up during the weekday evening rush. On the same day, gasoline at the station was priced at 1,997 won per liter, below the district's average of 2,049 won.

More customers have been searching for cheaper options and end up here.

"Many customers are topping off their tanks in preparation for further increases," said the manager of the Singil gas station.

"It's hard to believe those numbers anymore," said a woman who had stopped by the station, shaking her head as she pointed to the price board.

Consumers' fueling habits have changed as fuel prices have climbed since the outbreak of the Iran war in late February.

More drivers are filling up their tanks at once, believing that today's price is the lowest they will see. So-called fuel pilgrimage, in which drivers travel farther to find cheaper gas, is also becoming more common.

"Last week, I drove all the way to Gyeonggi's Goyang to find gas under 2,000 won per liter," said a person surnamed Choi, who lives in western Seoul's Gangseo District. "I filled up the tank to the full and paid about 100,000 won."

This pattern is also evident in consumer credit card data.

The ratio of customers filling their tanks to capacity rose 25.1 percent on year, according to BC Card data on gas station transactions nationwide in March. Given that total gas station transactions rose 8.7 percent over the same period, the increase in full-tank purchases appears to be notable.

As drivers increasingly fully fill their tanks, the average transaction size has grown.

Transactions in the 100,000 to 150,000 won range jumped 84 percent on year, while those between 70,000 and 100,000 won rose 28.4 percent. In contrast, transactions below 30,000 won and those between 30,000 and 50,000 won fell by 31.5 percent and 25.7 percent, respectively.

As expectations of further price hikes take hold, drivers are increasingly filling up more generously each time they stop for fuel.

In April, the nationwide average price of regular gasoline reached 1,986 won per liter, up 150 won from 1,836 won in March. In May, prices have already climbed past 2,010 won per liter.

That marks a sharp contrast with the same period last year, when prices hovered in the mid-1,600 won range from March through May.

The rise of fuel pilgrimage is also evident in the data.

Transactions made outside customers' residential areas increased 34 percent over a year, while transactions within residential areas rose by just 21 percent.

For purchases in the 100,000 to 150,000 won range, the transaction figure of "gas pilgrims" more than doubled.

The data is based on an analysis of gas stations nationwide that recorded at least 1,000 monthly transactions across 226 cities, counties and districts.

Some of the sharpest increases in full-tank purchases by nonresidents were seen in Gyeonggi's Hanam, which logged an increase of 86.5 percent over a year. The runner-up region was Gyeonggi's Gwacheon, followed by Seoul's Dobong District.

Drivers fl...

This article is by Lim Sun-young and read by an artificial voice.

For 34-year-old office worker Koo, who lives alone in western Seoul, grocery shopping these days starts with one question: "Can I finish this in one meal?"

"With prices already so high, it feels wasteful if food ends up being thrown away," Koo said. "I prefer foods that are inexpensive, convenient and easy to eat alone in small portions while still giving me some variety."

Soaring prices, the rise of single-person households, and a growing preference for experiential consumption are fueling the spread of so-called micro consumption — purchasing that prioritizes small unit sizes.

In response, the retail industry is rolling out a series of small-portion food products that break conventional expectations.

According to the Ministry of Data and Statistics, consumer prices in April rose 2.6 percent from a year earlier, marking the steepest increase in 1 year and 9 months. The Korea Rural Economic Institute also identified "simplicity" as a key consumer value in its report on major food consumption trends for 2025 and 2026.

"As production costs rise and companies face pressure to raise prices, expanding small-portion products has become an alternative way to reduce consumers' financial burden," an industry official said.

The cafe industry is aggressively introducing single-serving cup bingsu, or shaved ice desserts, as a signature summer item after cup bingsu gained popularity last year at prices of 3,000 won to 4,000 won ($2 to $2.70), less than half the price of regular multi-serving bingsu.

Budget coffee franchises, including Mega MGC Coffee, Paik's Coffee and Ediya Coffee, have launched cup bingsu earlier than last year while expanding their product lineups. Starbucks also recently introduced cup bingsu for the first time.

Industry observers point to the rise of so-called bingsu-flation — a combination of bingsu and inflation — as a key factor behind the growing demand for value-for-money shaved-ice desserts. The price of apple mango bingsu at The Shilla Seoul hotel has climbed to 130,000 won this year, up 20,000 won from last year.

Convenience stores are also introducing specialty menu items, such as sweet-and-spicy fried chicken, tteokbokki (spicy rice cake) and Korean beef seaweed soup, in cup-food formats.

CU sells cup fried chicken portions weighing 220 grams (7.8 ounces) for 4,000 won and cup tteokbokki for 2,900 won, while GS25 offers refrigerated cup rice meals priced between 3,000 won and 5,000 won, along with instant cup soups in small portions for 1,500 won.

"Sales of refrigerated cup rice meals rose 33.8 percent from a year earlier between January and April, while instant cup soup sales surged 167.4 percent," a GS25 representative said. "We plan to launch additional products, including cup noodles and cup tteokbokki, in the first half of this year in response to growing demand."

Mini cakes are also gaining popularity. Sales of mini cakes at Emart bakeries between January and April rose 24.5 percent from a year earlier, while sales growth for whole cakes during the same period reached only 1 percent.

Cafe and dessert chains, including Twosome Place and Baskin-Robbins, are also expanding mini cake product lines priced at around 10,000 won.

Even products traditionally associated with bulk purchases — such as rice, pork belly and watermelon — are increasingly being sold in smaller portions.

Lotte Mart now sells 1-kilogram (2.2-pound) bags of rice for 7,490 won and also offers small-portion meat products intended for single meals. At Emart, sales of sliced watermelon between January and April surged more than 1,000 percent from a year earlier.

The range of sliced fruits sold at supermarkets is also expanding to include mangoes, peaches, melons and pineapples.

Behind the trend is sharply rising food inflation. According to the Korea Agro-Fisheries & Food Trade Corporation and industry data, the average retail price of a 20-kilogram (44-pound) bag of ri...