A Rare Glimpse Inside the Blue House & One Last Taste of Seoul
We were down to our final days in Seoul. It didn’t feel real yet—the idea of leaving, of packing up and moving on to the next city. But today’s itinerary had something special in store: a visit to the Blue House (청와대, Cheongwadae), South Korea’s version of the White House.
Unlike the single-structure White House in the U.S., the Blue House is a sprawling complex with separate buildings designed for different functions. A fusion of modern government offices, traditional hanok-style architecture, and lush natural landscapes, it felt both grand and deeply connected to Korea’s cultural roots.
We were incredibly lucky to be here. For decades, the Blue House had been off-limits to the public. But for a brief two-year window, the government had opened its gates. If we had come any earlier or later, we wouldn’t have been able to see it at all. That alone made the visit feel like a privilege, a rare peek into the inner workings of South Korea’s leadership.
The main building, where the president hosts delegations and conducts official business, was sleek and modern, with massive reception rooms and conference spaces. But what caught my attention the most was the presidential residence itself—a stunning L-shaped hanok with its iconic blue-tiled roof. Perched high on a hill, it was surrounded by manicured gardens, a tea house, and a small guardhouse, all enclosed within a traditional stone wall. It felt worlds away from the modern government offices below—a retreat, a quiet sanctuary amid the political storm. The contrast between official governance and personal solitude was striking.
Even after walking through Seoul’s palaces, temples, and museums, this place felt unique. It was a reminder that modern Korea isn’t just about skyscrapers and K-pop—it’s about honoring the past while looking to the future.
The tour of the Blue House wrapped up earlier than expected, leaving us with an open afternoon. For many of us, that meant one thing: food.
I had been raving about spicy tteokbokki (떡볶이) since we arrived in Korea, and today was finally the day. A small group of us wandered through Insadong, following Naver reviews and the promise of lunch specials to a tucked-away restaurant known for its tteokbokki.
The first dish: a classic spicy tteokbokki.
Thick rice cakes swim in a fiery red sauce, and the dish is loaded with hot dogs, vegetables, ramen noodles, and that signature gochujang kick. I had spent weeks training my taste buds, preparing for Korean spice levels, only to find… it wasn’t as overwhelmingly spicy as I expected. Delicious? Absolutely. But the real surprise was how balanced the heat was—not just fire, but depth, umami, warmth.
The second dish: black garlic tteokbokki.
A richer, more savory version of the dish, with the same rice cakes and ramen noodles but coated in a garlicky, slightly sweet sauce and topped with boiled egg. It was completely different, less of a punch, more of a slow-build indulgence. And, of course, no meal was complete without kimbap (김밥). I had a hard time finding kimbap I could eat because of my fear of mushrooms, but everyone at the table swore it was phenomenal.
And then came the unexpected highlight—naengmyeon (냉면). The restaurant staff must have liked us because they had comped us with a bowl of cold noodles in iced broth. Perfect for a hot summer day, the dish was refreshing, sharp, and almost shockingly cold. The kind of meal that snaps you awake, reminding you exactly where you are. Sitting in that restaurant, laughing, dipping chopsticks into steaming plates, stealing bites from each other’s dishes—it hit me. We were leaving soon. And there were still so many things I wanted to eat with these smiling, laughing faces that surrounded me.
After lunch, we parted ways.
Some of us went *hopping, picking up last-minute souvenirs for friends and family back home. Others took the time to journal and reflect, starting mentally preparing to pack.
But for me? I just wanted to walk.
To feel Seoul one last time—the heat radiating off the pavement, the hum of people moving through the streets, the sound of shopkeepers calling out in Korean, K-pop drifting from storefronts, the distant ding of a subway chime.
I didn’t know when I’d be back.
So I let the city sink into my bones—one last time.
After we had rested, a few of us had a plan. One of my classmates had stumbled across a bookstore a few days prior—not too far from our hotel—and we all wanted to check it out. The area was also home to some solid shopping spots, and with our time in Seoul dwindling, we needed to grab a few last-minute things. The walk was easy, the air sticky with early summer humidity. We passed by the temple we had visited just days before, but tonight, something was different.
We heard it before we saw it. A deep, resonant drumbeat. It stopped us in our tracks. It was the temple’s evening prayer ceremony, and the sound of the drum rolled through the streets like a pulse, ancient and steady. The city seemed to hush itself in response. Underneath the weight of the drum, we could hear chanting—low, rhythmic, woven into the fabric of twilight.
No one spoke. No one moved.
We stood there—travelers in a foreign city, caught between the past and the present. And for just a moment, Seoul stood still with us.
Eventually, the spell broke. The drum faded, the city resumed its own rhythm, and we pulled ourselves from the moment, stepping forward into the dimming sun-lit streets of the shopping district.
Talk about cultural whiplash.
The bookstore itself was massive—an entire basement floor of a high-rise building. The kind of place you could get lost in for hours. Which, naturally, we did (albeit not for hours, but we did get very, very lost). Every section felt like a maze, and at some point, we all got separated. Aisles packed with books in Hangul, shelves dedicated to K-pop photobooks, and design and travel sections filled with glossy coffee table volumes. Somehow, we found one another and escaped back into the humidity of the growing night.
On a whim, we decided to check out a riverside park our professor had recommended. It turned out to be Cheonggyecheon Stream (청계천). If you’ve ever seen a K-drama, a travel vlog, or a tourism ad for Seoul, you’ve probably seen this place. A long, winding stream cutting through the city, stone steps crossing its waters, soft lights glowing along its banks. But nothing prepared us for experiencing it in person.**
Tonight, the stream had transformed into something else entirely. They were hosting an outdoor library. There were books everywhere—set up on open shelves, laid out on low tables, ready for anyone to pick up and read. A DJ played soft, ambient music, blending seamlessly into the murmur of conversations and the gentle sound of running water. People wandered barefoot across stepping stones, dipping their feet into the cool stream, escaping the heat of the city. Some sat alone, lost in books. Others gathered in small clusters, reading, talking, simply existing together in the space. We didn’t even have to say it aloud—we all had the same thought:
This could never exist back home.
It wasn’t just the concept of an outdoor library. It was the fact that no one was stealing the books. No one was destroying the space. No one was treating it like something disposable. In the U.S., something like this would last a week, maybe two, before it was vandalized, neglected, or removed altogether. But here? It was normal. A place like this—a true third space, a public gathering area meant for nothing more than existing together—wasn’t an anomaly. It was part of the fabric of the city.
We did what everyone else was doing. We took off our shoes and socks, rolled up our pants, and let the cool water run over our feet. We sat there, absorbing the atmosphere—the low hum of conversation, the soft flicker of lights, the occasional splash of someone hopping across the stream.
We didn’t talk much.
We just existed in it.
Eventually, after far too much time spent wandering the stream banks, we regrouped and decided it was time to eat. We wanted something filling, something good, and, after some debate, we landed on Korean BBQ.
The restaurant? Fantastic.
The language barrier? Absolutely brutal.
Between butchering our Korean, fumbling with translations, and pointing at things on the menu like helpless children, we somehow managed to order a feast. Plates of marinated meats, side dishes overflowing with kimchi, radishes, garlic, and ssamjang. The kind of meal that leaves you full but still wanting to eat just one more bite.
Eventually, the night pulled us back toward our hotel, and we made our way home, tired but satisfied.
There were only a few days left in Seoul, and every moment felt heavier, more significant. I didn’t know it then, but this night—this ordinary, unscripted night—would be one of the ones I’d remember most.
