A Long Season of Seoul: From Winter Lights to Retro Alleys

My time in Seoul wasn't a single whirlwind trip, but a slow unfolding of seasons. I spent over a year moving through the city and its outskirts, watching the light change from the harsh, bright glare of winter snow to the soft, filtered greens of early summer. Instead of rushing through a checklist of landmarks, I found myself drawn to the quiet intersections of modern life and old memories, documenting the city through the lens of my camera as I lived and breathed its rhythm.

Winter Glow and Quiet Mornings

The journey began in the deep cold of late November and early winter. I remember the cozy feeling of being indoors, where the living room was transformed by a Christmas tree and climbing plants that brought a bit of nature inside against the dark night. It was a time for staying in, surrounded by bookshelves and the warm glow of holiday lights, creating a sanctuary while the city outside froze. The atmosphere was heavy with the anticipation of the year's end, a quiet period of reflection before the new year arrived.

As January set in, I sought out small comforts to break the chill. I remember visiting a dessert cafe where I ordered two fruit yogurt bowls. They were colorful and fresh, topped with strawberries, blueberries, kiwis, and a thick piece of honeycomb that added a rich sweetness to the tart yogurt. It was a simple pleasure, but the brightness of the fruit felt like a necessary contrast to the grey winter skies. These small, sweet moments became my way of navigating the coldest months of the year.

The winter magic extended beyond the city center to the Konjiam Resort. I stood in an outdoor plaza where the ground was covered in white snow, and the air was biting. In the center of the square, a massive bear balloon sculpture glowed brightly against the night sky. The bear looked whimsical, wearing a pink muffler and blue goggles, with the Konjiam logo clearly visible on its chest. The contrast of the neon lights against the fallen snow created a surreal, playful atmosphere that felt like stepping into a winter fairytale.

Spring Transitions and Modern Spaces

By March, my interests shifted toward the intersection of light and architecture. I spent time in a modern exhibition space that felt almost otherworldly. The room was dark, but the ceiling and floor were mirrored with symmetrical grid-like LED lights. Walking through this space felt like moving through a digital landscape, where the sharp lines of the light installations defined the boundaries of the room. It was a stark, clean experience that highlighted the futuristic side of the city's design scene.

As April arrived, I took a trip to Gyeongju to see the Wolji Pond. I arrived early in the morning, just as the light was beginning to soften. The traditional Korean pavilion stood silently by the water, its wooden structure perfectly reflected on the still surface of the lake. There was a profound stillness to the scene, a sense of timelessness that felt far removed from the bustle of Seoul. The reflection in the water made the pavilion seem to float, grounding me in the historical weight of the landscape.

The transition into late spring brought me back to the urban parks of the city. I spent an afternoon walking through a park nestled between high-rise apartment complexes. The spring air was mild, and I found a wooden pergola bench where I could sit and watch the residents go about their day. The walking paths were lined with fresh greenery, and the juxtaposition of the natural park against the towering concrete walls of the apartments spoke to the way the city balances density with a need for open air.

Summer Flavors and Solemn Moments

May brought a shift in mood, with cloudy evenings that made the city feel more intimate. I visited a neighborhood park where a circular sculpture bench sat atop a wide lawn. The sky was overcast, casting a soft, shadowless light over the grass. It was a quiet place for contemplation, where the simple geometry of the bench provided a place to rest and observe the slow pace of the evening. These unplanned stops in local parks became some of my favorite parts of the experience.

However, not every moment was light. In mid-May, I visited a charnel house to pay my respects. The atmosphere was heavy and silent. I saw the urns of the deceased, with names carefully engraved, and a portrait of a man placed side by side with the urns. Artificial flowers provided the only splash of color in the sterile environment. It was a sobering reminder of the cycle of life and the way the city honors its dead in these organized, quiet spaces of remembrance.

As the heat of June and July intensified, my focus turned to the diverse food scene. I remember a particular meal of delivery food—a classic Korean experience. The spread was laid out in plastic containers: a colorful bowl of bibimbap, sliced kimbap, fried chicken, and fresh wrap vegetables. It was a feast of textures and flavors, eaten in the comfort of my own space. Later in July, I ventured out to Borders Mexican Restaurant for a different flavor profile. The table was filled with a hearty fajita platter, sizzling on a hot plate and accompanied by fresh guacamole and various side dishes.

Autumn Skies and Retro Echoes

September began with the practicalities of travel. I remember the cold touch of my silver aluminum suitcase, focusing on the detail of the handle and the lock as I prepared for another movement. By late September, I found myself at a local Korean restaurant called 'Paewangje'. I stood by the glass door, reading the lunch menu and prices listed on the window. It was a humble exterior, but it represented the everyday culinary landscape of the city, where the daily specials dictate the flow of the lunch hour.

October brought the crisp air of autumn and the excitement of the ADEX airshow. Under a brilliant, clear blue sky, I joined a crowd of spectators at the exhibition grounds. The highlight was the display of Marine Corps helicopters, their massive frames imposing against the horizon. The energy of the crowd was high, and the clarity of the autumn air made every detail of the aircraft stand out. It was a day of scale and power, contrasting with the quiet parks I had visited months prior.

As I moved into 2026, I sought out the spiritual and the nostalgic. I visited a traditional temple tucked deep in the mountains, surrounded by towering granite cliffs. The wooden architecture of the temple blended seamlessly into the spring mountain landscape, offering a sense of isolation and peace. Later, in April, I found myself on a road transformed into a tunnel of cherry blossoms. I remember the feeling of the petals falling around me as I raised my arms to embrace the spring air, a moment of pure, unadulterated joy.

My final days were spent exploring the remnants of the past. I visited an outdoor exhibition of stone monuments, where ancient steles stood among lush green trees under a bright sky. Finally, I entered an indoor exhibition that recreated a retro alleyway. I walked through the simulated street, feeling the nostalgia of a bygone era. The experience ended in a weathered, old building where I found a vacant room with a single, worn wooden round table. The peeling walls and empty space felt like a final, quiet punctuation mark to my long journey through the city.

Reflections on a Long Stay

• Pacing: Staying for a long duration allowed me to see the city's emotional range, from the festive winter to the solemnity of the charnel house.
• Observation: I learned that the most memorable moments weren't always the big sights, but the texture of a silver suitcase or the menu on a glass door.
• Advice: If I did this again, I would spend more time in the mountain temples during the peak of autumn to see the foliage contrast with the granite cliffs.