A Rainy Night, Hidden Pizza, and the Art of Doing Nothing
Not every day of travel has to be a whirlwind of adventure. Some days just happen. Today was one of those days. We spent the bulk of the day at HUFS, immersed in language drills and cultural discussions, and by the time we were done, we were exhausted. The heat had been unrelenting all week, but today was different—our first real taste of monsoon season in South Korea. The air was thick, heavy with humidity. Rain came in bursts—sometimes soft, sometimes sudden and torrential. You could feel it in your bones, the way the weather seemed to wrap itself around you. No one had the energy to make big plans. Instead, a small group of us gravitated toward the bar across the way, lured in by the promise of cold drinks and a dry place to sit for a while.
This wasn’t just any bar. Sure, it saw its fair share of foreigners, but that didn’t make it any less warm, welcoming, and deeply local. The owner and staff greeted us with genuine enthusiasm, thrilled that we were attempting—however clumsily—to order in Korean. They offered recommendations, explained drinks and snacks, and seemed just as invested in our night as we were.
The atmosphere was pure comfort. Maybe it was the warm glow of the lights against the rain-streaked windows. Maybe it was the mix of laughter and soft conversations drifting from the tables. Maybe it was just the simple joy of being in a place where no one was in a rush. We could have stayed all night. But eventually, hunger won out.
We left the safety of our window-side table and wandered through the narrow, winding streets of Insadong, following the scent of food as the neon signs reflected off the rain-slicked pavement, searching for something that caught our eye.
That’s when I saw it.
I had noticed this restaurant earlier in the week, and something about it stuck with me. Maybe it was my design background—I’ve always had an eye for aesthetics, for spaces that tell a story. And if there’s one thing South Korea excels at, it’s aesthetics.
Every café, every shop, every bar and restaurant seems crafted with intention—a perfect fusion of traditional and modern, East and West, elegance and playfulness. But this place? This place felt like a world of its own. It was a pizza restaurant, but it looked like a courtyard someone had transformed into a secret hideaway. The entrance was deceptively simple—just a doorway leading into a small foyer. But once you stepped through, you found yourself in an open courtyard, a single sprawling tree standing at its center.
Lanterns, fairy lights, and streamers hung from its branches, swaying softly in the night air. The seating was a delightful mix of contradictions. Sliding glass doors framed each side of the courtyard, creating a space that felt both open and enclosed. The walls were bare plaster brick, a little rough, a little undone, but effortlessly cool. The furniture was an eclectic blend of traditional Korean lacquer tables, vintage rock posters, and mismatched chairs that looked like they’d been collected from garage sales and antique shops. And the music? A mix of Korean hits from the ‘80s to today, an unexpected but perfect soundtrack to the setting. It was effortlessly stylish and utterly unpretentious. The kind of place you’d never find in a guidebook but would remember long after the trip was over.
Pizza in Korea? Absolutely. I know, I’ve mentioned the dish multiple times already, and I promise you
I ate food other than pizza while I was there, but let’s talk about Korean pizza.
Before this trip, I hadn’t really thought much about how pizza culture varied from country to country. But if there’s one thing I learned here, it’s that South Korea does not tolerate bad pizza. Every single slice I had in this country was fantastic. And this place? Some of the best pizza I’ve ever had. The crust was thin, crispy, just the right balance of chew and crunch. The toppings were thoughtfully chosen—Korean-style combinations that blended sweetness, spice, and umami in ways that felt both familiar and completely new. It was the kind of meal that makes you forget time, that fills the air with laughter and easy conversation, that lingers in memory long after the plates are empty. It was comfort in the heart of Seoul.
After dinner, we wandered back to our new favorite little bar, drawn in by its cozy familiarity. We sat by the windows, watching as the humidity fogged up the glass, the city lights beyond turning soft and dreamlike. The night wasn’t about sightseeing or checking off a must-visit list. It was about existing in a place, sinking into it, letting it wrap around you like a warm blanket.
In Scandinavia, they have a word for this feeling: hygge. It’s a concept that doesn’t translate well into English, but it captures the essence of warmth, coziness, and deep, simple contentment.
That was this night.
No grand adventure. No big plans. Just good food, good company, and the quiet, unspoken understanding that these are the moments that matter.
Sometimes, the best memories aren’t what you do.
They’re who you’re with.
