Bus Reform Meets Urban Redesign
More than forty thousand people lived crowded into Yeojin City's old town alone. A substantial share of the population resided right in the city center, which gave the district a respectable scale of its own.
Reorganizing the old town, building out the new district that was still to come, and overhauling the trunk bus routes that carried so many commuters to and from Gwangseong City — those were the tasks that remained on my list.
But none of it could be done overnight. Citizens already relied on fixed bus routes, and ripping those up without warning would inevitably throw the whole city into confusion.
Above all, what mattered most was knowing exactly where people boarded and where they got off.
Kim Jin-soo, Head of the Public Transportation Division, came to me with materials on precisely this problem.
"Mr. Mayor, if we're going to restructure the routes, we first need to analyze citizens' travel patterns. The problem is, Yeojin City doesn't have tap-off data."
I flipped through his report. "No tap-off data?"
"That's right. People tap their cards when they board, but there's no reason for them to tap again when getting off. There's no incentive for it. So the vast majority of riders never do. Which means we have no idea where anyone actually disembarks."
At that, I gave an immediate order. "Even without tap-off records, there's a way."
Kim stared at me in surprise. I smiled and explained at an unhurried pace.
"When people catch the bus during the morning commute, they tap and pay. Then when they leave work and board again in the evening, they tap once more. So couldn't we analyze movement patterns based on the transit card numbers? Compare where someone got off in the morning with where they got back on in the afternoon, and we can map out citizens' daily routes well enough."
Kim's eyes went wide. "So that's how it could be done...!"
"It's simple logic. Certain boarding patterns let you predict roughly where someone got off and where they'll board next. It won't be perfect, but it'll secure us a baseline of data."
Then I offered a second method as well. "And make use of telecom data. Ask the carriers for network usage data on the areas where crowds gather during rush hours and on weekends, and we can identify the main travel corridors. Use that to place bus stops and design the transfer routes."
Kim's jaw dropped outright.
The truth was, these were methods I'd researched in my previous life, so they were old hat to me. But data analysis techniques like these remained the proprietary know-how of a handful of urban planning firms — city officials could hardly be expected to know them.
"We have to squeeze every drop of value out of our data," I told Kim with a smile. "If we want efficient routes on a lean budget, the first step is mining the information we already have."
Kim nodded rapidly, busy scribbling notes.
Preparation for restructuring the bus network across the old town and the new district would soon be ready.
While I was still turning the route restructuring problem over in my head, Cho Yeon-woo of the Citizen Space Design Division arrived with the materials I had requested.
"Mr. Mayor, here's the vacancy survey for the old city center."
I skimmed through the documents Cho handed over. It was just as I'd expected — the vacancy rate in the old downtown we intended to designate as a car-free street had reached thirty percent.
"The ground floors are still mostly occupied, but the office space on the second and third floors sits almost entirely empty. What's more, a large number of the buildings that don't front the road — the ones tucked back in the alleys — have been vacant for years."
I pressed a finger down on one of the site plans. "How many buildings could we realistically acquire?"
"About twenty that we've confirmed so far. Judging by the official assessed land values, three to four hundred million won per building would cover the purchase. The area is so run-down that prices are cheap."
A faint smile crossed my face. It was even cheaper than I'd anticipated.
This district had never once been included in a redevelopment plan. It was, quite literally, space that had been forgotten by everyone.
"Then use this year's contingency reserve to acquire them quietly. Keeping it under wraps until it's done — that's the important part."
At my firm directive, Noh Chae-eun, Head of the Planning and Budget Division, who had been listening nearby, spoke up with a worried look. "Mr. Mayor, small as it is, it's still an expenditure of public funds, and we'll have to report it to the city council eventually. Procedure won't require prior approval, but there's a real chance it becomes an issue in an audit."
I looked at her and let a knowing smile spread across my face. "Then we simply create the justification ourselves, first."
Noh stared at me blankly. I continued my explanation slowly.
"Who's the council member for this district again?"
"Councilman Bang Si-hu. He also chairs the Construction Committee."
It was a name I hated hearing, and my brow creased for a moment. But I couldn't let it show — not yet, anyway. Suppressing the irritation, I said, "Good. Talk to Councilman Bang. Tell him that as part of our neighborhood revitalization program, the current community service center in the old downtown is far too cramped, and residents are suffering for it. And that, therefore, the city intends to acquire part of this area to expand the facility."
Noh grasped my intent at once, and admiration dawned on her face. "Then Bang will have no choice but to throw himself into it."
"Exactly. Once the service center expansion becomes the official justification, the council loses any reason to object. And it's genuinely useful too — expanding the center here will actually benefit the residents. Not a bad plan, is it?"
"...That's a brilliant move, honestly."
I nodded and turned my gaze back to Cho. "Push the purchase process through as quickly as possible. Once Councilman Bang starts moving, this will become an issue on its own. We need to set the current flowing before the council formally takes notice."
Cho and Noh exchanged a look, then both nodded at the same time.
"Understood. We'll get started right away."
The reason for buying up cheap land was simple. When a neglected district like this one comes back to life, artists, cultural event planners, and small café owners flock to it, drawn in by the low rents.
The distinctive atmosphere and charm they create gradually revitalize the street. People naturally gather, the area's value rises, and the local economy comes alive.
But the process carries a built-in problem: rents spike.
This phenomenon is called gentrification. The very people who cheaply inhabited a neglected district and made it vibrant end up being pushed out when the rents climb — an ironic outcome their own success produced.
From a landowner's perspective, it's simple economic logic. The building's value has risen, so charging higher rent is only natural; anyone would chase greater returns.
But once that happens, only the major franchise chains and large capital that can afford the rents move in, the street loses its character, and the cycle of rising vacancies begins all over again.
Which was why I had judged that the city had to buy the land now, while it was still cheap.
If the city owns the land, gentrification can't take hold there — at least not on public parcels. On city-owned space, we can run a sensible rent policy, preserve the district's original character, and sustain its revival over the long term.
And there was one more advantage: we could create cultural spaces, plazas, and parks that citizens could use freely.
Spaces like these aren't something private capital builds easily.
To a property developer, even a single pyeong of land is a precious asset. What matters to them isn't providing people a place to rest — it's maximizing profit.
When the city secures the land itself, though, everything changes. We can build public infrastructure in all its forms: cultural spaces, outdoor performance venues, creative studios, startup incubators for young entrepreneurs.
In the end, all of it remains as an asset of the community, delivering far greater value to citizens over the long run.
And there was yet another important effect in play. When we went to attract central government grant programs, having space already secured would work as a powerful advantage.
Most central government subsidy programs cover project costs but never land acquisition.
That's why so many local governments win a national grant only to discover they have no land, and end up being forced to build their facility in some remote corner far outside the city. The result is poor accessibility and a building citizens barely use.
But if we had already secured land in the heart of downtown, as we were doing now?
When a central government project came knocking, we could confidently say, "We already have the space secured." That would let us attract more projects — and accelerate the city's development considerably.
I closed the report and looked back and forth between Cho Yeon-woo of the Urban Planning Division and Noh Chae-eun of the Planning and Budget Division. "This is the window. Wait too long and the land prices rise; let private capital move in first and we lose any chance to act. Quietly — but quickly. Get the acquisitions done."
The two of them nodded deeply.
Next, I looked over the résumés of three public architects working in Gwangseong City. Amusingly, two of the three had studied architecture in France.
Having trained in the same country, their design sensibilities and philosophical leanings were likely to be similar — and French architecture happens to be particularly strong in the use of public space and urban regeneration.
Reading through their records, all three had genuinely interesting experience. That talent was at work in the city right next door; handled well, they would be a tremendous asset. I issued the order immediately.
"I want to meet them in person soon. Set up the time."
Cho Yeon-woo gathered his papers and asked, "Are you planning to appoint them as public architects of our city?"
"I am. They'll work with us on the car-free street project and the remodeling of the buildings we're acquiring. Not as mere design consultants — I want genuine, substantive collaboration."
I took a moment to collect my thoughts, then added, "From this point on, Yeojin City must be shaped not as simple development, but as a place people want to live. In that sense, these architects' philosophy and experience are exactly what we need. Appoint them as the city's public architects and set up the framework for full cooperation."
Cho nodded, taking notes. "Understood. I'll arrange the meeting schedule as soon as possible."
I added right away, "This is urgent — if you can, get me a time tomorrow. Evening is fine. Just make sure we meet as soon as possible."
Cho nodded once more and hurried out of the office.
I gazed out the window for a while, lost in thought.
I had studied urban planning, but I was not an architect. Architecture is not simply design or structure — it belongs to the realm of art and philosophy.
I knew how to lay out roads, buildings, and various kinds of space, but actually bringing them to life was the architect's work.
In my past life, I had seen astonishing spaces created by architects in other cities. Give public architecture proper attention and genuine support, and it can produce extraordinary results.
Lack of money was never the real problem. In the end, everything hinged on how much vision the mayor — on me — brought to backing and championing the architects.
The reason our country's public buildings so often look uniform and shoddy isn't a shortage of budget. It's that the administration approaches them too complacently.
And at the heart of that problem lies the attitude of the mayor or county executive.
When an official disregards the architect's design intent, knows nothing about architecture, and yet starts interfering as if he does — grotesque buildings are born.
Worse still, within a vertical administrative hierarchy, the longer the approval chain stretches — division head, bureau director, deputy mayor, mayor — the more opinions get layered on, the more revisions pile up, and the original vision dissolves.
In the end, the architects burn out. Even the ones who threw themselves into the work with real passion at the start finish by churning out the same bland, forgettable buildings you can see anywhere.
And the buildings that result have no character, and breathe no life into the city.
That vicious cycle had to be broken. In Yeojin City, I was not going to make that mistake.