Seoul often gets flattened into one dimension: many people see it as South Korea’s fast, trend-sensitive and ever-evolving capital.
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But while parts of it are all those things, most of the city isn’t Gangnam or Seongsu or whatever neighbourhood is currently filling people’s Instagram saves. The version of Seoul I keep coming back to lies in the following neighbourhoods – where the atmosphere is slower, less fluid and shaped by daily routine more than commercial activity.
Despite sitting between Itaewon, one of Seoul’s busiest nightlife districts, and Gongdeok, a major stop along the airport line, Yongmun-dong has stubbornly retained its own character. People walk their dogs, pick up groceries and stand chatting outside convenience stores. Elderly residents gather on benches near the park and stay there for hours, watching the neighbourhood swirl around them. Parents push strollers through side streets lined with small restaurants and produce shops that have looked the same for years.
There’s no pressure to ‘optimise’ the neighborhood into something cooler or more aesthetic. It just exists as it is.
At the same time, newer independent spaces have started settling into the area in a way that feels natural rather than attention-seeking. Tucked deep inside a small residential alley block is a cocktail bar that serves drinks built entirely around coffee and tea, while a cafe known for its fresh New Orleans-style beignets sits beside a narrow strip of grass just off the main road. In a city constantly reinventing itself, Yongmun-dong has stayed grounded in its everyday rhythm, with a few places quietly expressing their own character.
All photos: Stacey Heo
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If Yongmun-dong feels unpretentious, Yeonhui-dong is softer and more refined.
A short bus ride from Hongdae, one of Seoul’s louder neighbourhoods, the atmosphere transitions as soon as you draw near. The streets open up, buildings get lower and people move leisurely. Without towering buildings or dense signage packing the streets, the area – long associated with Seoul’s old money – is noticeably more open and sunlit.
Here, a shop dedicated entirely to crochet and knitting materials sits near a pickle speciality store selling small-batch jars in seasonal combinations.
Just a short walk away, vendors along the centre hallway of a local plaza offer imported snacks from Japan and the US, while another shop nearby focuses exclusively on housemade bagels. Small art galleries are also scattered throughout the neighbourhood, embedded between cafes and residential streets.
Many of the businesses in Yeonhui-dong feel highly specific in this way, carefully shaped and sustained by a clientele that prioritises quality and intention over novelty.
All photos: Stacey Heo
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Then there’s Mullae, which is rough around the edges in the best way possible. Once a steel and metalworking district, much of its industrial infrastructure is still present today, but the area now shares space with a growing community of artists and creative studios.
You’ll hear the shriek of metal grinding from one workshop, then pass a hushed art studio right next door. There’s graffiti everywhere, welding sparks flying out of doorways, and sculptures scattered along alleyways.
And in the evening, when the factories close and the mural-covered shutters roll down, Mullae becomes a hive of restaurants and bars.
To me, what makes this neighbourhood interesting is that it hasn’t fully decided what it wants to become. The workshops and the people who run them are still part of the everyday. At the same time, there are izakayas, cafes, Filipino restaurants, wine bars and sandwich shops squeezed between the steel factories and machine shops.
Walking through the different blocks reminds me a little of older San Francisco neighbourhoods before everything became cleaner and more expensive, or of Euljiro and Seongsu before they turned into brands of themselves. Shaped by its industrial past and a creative energy that’s actively in motion, Mullae still feels unpredictable – something that’s becoming rare in Seoul.
All photos: Stacey Heo
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In contrast, Achasan carries more emotional weight, anchored and shaped by residents who have lived here for decades. Early mornings are defined by trucks driving slowly through the residential streets peddling corn, peaches and other vegetables over distorted megaphones – a common sight in older residential neighborhoods across Seoul, where many elderly residents still rely on them for daily groceries instead of making trips to the supermarket.
Cries of “oksusu, sachonwon” (“corn, 4,000 won”) ring through the air, before someone leans out a window or comes downstairs holding cash.
The area sits close to Achasan mountain and Children’s Grand Park, so nature is deeply intertwined with people’s routines. Older locals in full hiking gear crowd the station in the mornings before heading up the trails. Afterwards, many end up at one of the many tofu restaurants nearby, which seem to operate almost as unofficial post-hike gathering spots.
Around the neighbourhood, most people still shop at small produce stores instead of supermarkets. Hair salons spill out onto the sidewalks with women chatting mid-perm, cups of coffee steaming on tables beside them. It’s not uncommon to see groups of middle-aged and older residents drinking with their meals at casual Korean restaurants, sometimes as early as lunchtime and continuing into the afternoon. Time in this area doesn’t carry much urgency.
All photos: Stacey Heo
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That sense of unhurriedness is what ties these neighbourhoods together. Between Seoul’s faster and shinier versions of itself, there are places where the city moves at a more human pace, shaped more by daily routines and by the everyday interactions that quietly define each of them. They may not be designed with visitors in mind – but that’s exactly their charm.
