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  • India: A Country Bursting with Color and Life

    Dear reader,

    Today’s letter begins somewhere far from Seoul. It’s about India, where I traveled last year. Of all the countries I’ve visited, it ranks among the most unforgettable. Even now, long after coming home, some scenes remain as vivid as if I saw them yesterday.

    If I had to name the single most striking thing about India, I wouldn’t hesitate: everything is incredibly colorful. The streets, the people, the vehicles, the buildings. The entire country felt saturated with color.

    It starts with what people wear

    The first thing that caught my eye was the clothing. Picture a street in Korea: we mostly dress in neutral tones. Black, white, gray, beige. The inside of a Seoul subway car is a study in muted colors. The streets of India were the exact opposite. Vivid orange, deep pink, emerald green, brilliant yellow. People moved through the streets each wearing a different color, and the crowd itself became a kind of scenery.

    Which is why browsing clothing shops turned out to be so much fun. The walls were covered in colors and patterns you’d never find in a Korean store, and I kept wandering in even with no intention of buying anything. It was the first trip where clothing shops became a tourist attraction for me.

    Even the vehicles are decorated

    Another thing I loved was India’s vehicle decoration culture, especially the trucks and rickshaws (three-wheeled taxis). So many of them were fully customized: vibrant paintings, sparkling ornaments, colorful tassels and patterns covering the entire vehicle. At first I assumed it was some kind of commercial signage, but the more I looked, the clearer it became that it wasn’t. The drivers were expressing themselves through their vehicles. In Korea, a car is mostly a means of transportation, and most of them are white, black, or gray. In India, a vehicle is a canvas for self-expression. The roads were never boring.

    Curious about the roots, I went to a museum

    By this point I had to know: where does all this color come from? So I visited a museum, and there I found a clue. India has been using rich patterns and colors for a very, very long time. The textiles, miniature paintings, and crafts on display were full of brilliant colors and intricate motifs. And interestingly, each region seemed to have its own distinct decorative style. The colors I saw on the streets didn’t appear out of nowhere. They were a sensibility passed down through centuries.

    But my question never found its full answer. Why did decoration culture develop so richly in India? Is it the climate? Religion? Something else entirely? If you know, please tell me in the comments. I’m genuinely curious.

    The days I miss the color

    Since coming back to Korea, I sometimes find myself on a gray-toned subway car, thinking of the streets of India. The color and vitality of that country turned out to be the kind of memory that stays long after the trip ends. If I ever go back, I plan to walk those streets wearing something a little more colorful myself.

    See you in the next letter.

    From Seoul, whigoori

  • Bingsu: The Dessert That Gets Koreans Through Summer

    Dear reader,

    Summer in Korea is brutally hot. The temperature itself is high, but what really gets you is the humidity. The air turns damp and heavy, and even a short walk leaves you drenched in sweat. That’s the Korean summer. And there is one dessert Koreans reach for all season long to survive it. Today, I want to tell you about bingsu (빙수).

    So, what is bingsu?

    Bingsu is Korea’s summer dessert: finely shaved ice piled high and topped with something sweet. The basic structure is simple. Ice, and toppings on the ice. But on top of that simple structure, Koreans have built an astonishing range of variations.

    One thing to know first: bingsu is not a dessert you eat alone. One big bowl, several spoons. Sharing a single bowl with friends, family, or a date sitting around it is how bingsu works in Korea. Ordering one giant bingsu at a café and clinking spoons over it is a classic scene of the Korean summer.

    The old style: patbingsu

    The original form of bingsu is patbingsu, shaved ice topped with sweet red beans (“pat” means red bean in Korean). The custom of eating shaved ice itself goes back a long way. Records from the Joseon dynasty tell of kings sharing precious ice with their officials in summer, who would crush it and eat it with fruit. The patbingsu we know today took shape in the early 20th century, and it has been evolving in its own Korean way ever since.

    The old-school patbingsu my parents’ generation remembers was much rougher than what you see now. Coarsely shaved ice with red beans, chewy rice cake, misugaru (roasted grain powder), condensed milk, plus colorful jelly cubes and canned fruit. It was far from refined, but that retro clumsiness was exactly its charm. Some shops still keep this style alive, and for Koreans it’s the taste of childhood memories.

    The modern style: from snowflake ice to hotel bingsu

    Modern bingsu has evolved into something else entirely. The biggest innovation is snowflake ice. Instead of water, frozen milk is shaved into layers so fine and soft that they melt away the moment they touch your tongue. Once snowflake ice arrived, bingsu transformed from “cold ice” into “a soft dessert.”

    The world of toppings exploded too. Injeolmi bingsu covered in roasted soybean powder and rice cake, mango bingsu piled with fresh mango, tiramisu bingsu, even melon bingsu served in half a melon as the bowl. Every summer, cafés compete with their own signature creations. Luxury hotels in Seoul sell bingsu topped with premium fruit for around 100,000 won (about 75 USD) a bowl, and people line up for it. It makes the news every single summer. A bowl of shaved ice has become the front line of Korean dessert culture.

    How to enjoy bingsu in Korea

    My advice for travelers splits into two directions.

    If you’re curious about the modern styles, go to a café. In summer, virtually every café in Korea serves its own bingsu. From bingsu franchise chains to small neighborhood cafés with creative takes, the options are endless. Just look for the word “bingsu (빙수)” on the menu.

    If you’re curious about the old style, go to a rice cake shop. Unexpected, right? Among the shops selling tteok, Korea’s traditional rice cakes, some serve old-fashioned patbingsu in summer only. Handmade rice cake and red beans on shaved ice, exactly the way it was decades ago. It’s not glamorous, but it’s the taste Koreans call “the real one.” Most of these places are known only to locals, with barely a tourist in sight. If you want to experience a truly local Korean summer, this is the way.

    On a sweltering summer day, share a bowl of bingsu with someone across the table. The Korean summer might just start to feel lovable.

    See you in the next letter.

    From Seoul, whigoori

  • The Olle Trail: How to Really Meet Jeju Island

    Dear reader,

    These days, Jeju Island seems to have become a must-visit for travelers coming to Korea. After Seoul, it’s where everyone heads next. But when I hear my foreign friends talk about their Jeju trips, something often feels missing. They climbed Seongsan Ilchulbong, stopped by a famous café, ate black pork, and flew home. All good things, but I wouldn’t say they truly met Jeju. The island’s real charm hides in the spaces between the famous spots, along the roads you pass by in a rental car without ever stopping.

    So today, let me introduce what I believe is the best way to really meet Jeju: the Olle Trail (올레길).

    So, what is the Olle Trail?

    “Olle” is a word from the Jeju dialect. It means the narrow alley that leads from the main road to the front yard of a house. True to its name, the Olle Trail is a long-distance walking route stitched together from exactly those kinds of paths: village lanes, coastal walks, forest trails, and footpaths between farm fields. The first course opened in 2007, and today 27 courses totaling about 437 kilometers wrap all the way around the island.

    The trail was created by a journalist from Jeju who had walked the Camino de Santiago in Spain. She came home thinking, “I wish my island had a path like that.” What started from that thought became the origin of Korea’s walking-travel culture. In fact, the Olle Trail is often called “the Camino of Korea.”

    Walking it is simple. Blue and orange ribbons mark the way, along with small signposts shaped like a Jeju pony, called “ganse.” Follow the arrows and you’ll almost never get lost. Each course averages around 15 kilometers, which takes about 4 to 5 hours, so one course per day is the standard rhythm. You can also pick up an Olle passport and collect stamps along the way. Walk all 27 courses and you’ll earn an official completion certificate and a medal.

    Last winter, I walked the trail for ten days

    This February, I spent ten days walking the Olle Trail. And I’ll be honest with you: even as a Korean, I found a Jeju I had never seen before.

    It wasn’t the Jeju of tourist attractions. It was the Jeju where people actually live. Farm roads winding between black stone walls, quiet farming villages, fishing harbors where haenyeo (Jeju’s famous free-diving women) come out of the water after their morning dives. Course after course, I walked through scenery I would never have known existed. It was a Jeju you simply cannot reach by car. The path would follow the sea, then slip into a forest, come out into the middle of farmland, and lead back into the alleys of a small village. For ten days straight, I kept catching myself surprised that Jeju was this rich of an island.

    Who should walk it

    If you love nature, or if you love traveling slowly, please walk the Olle Trail. This is not the kind of trip where you collect photos in front of famous backdrops. It’s a trip where you cross an island at the speed of your own two feet. You don’t need to walk the whole thing either. Set aside just one day of your itinerary for a single course, and you’ll meet a Jeju that no rental car trip can show you.

    If Jeju is on your travel plans, pack a pair of walking shoes. The island’s true face is waiting on the trail.

    See you in the next letter.

    From Seoul, whigoori

  • Jangma: A Letter About the Korean Summer

    Dear reader,

    As I write this letter, it’s raining in Seoul. July in Korea is the most humid time of the year, and also the greenest. Today I want to tell you about the name of this season: jangma (장마). If you’re planning a summer trip to Korea, this is a word worth knowing.

    So, what is jangma?

    Jangma is Korea’s rainy season, running roughly from late June to late July every year. Cold, damp air from the north meets hot, humid air from the south over the Korean peninsula, forming a long, stalled band of rain clouds. That band drifts slowly up and down the country, bringing weeks of rain.

    For Koreans, jangma is not just weather. It’s a feeling of the season: the sticky air, the umbrella stands at every shop entrance, the sound of rain against the windows. And there’s a food that Koreans think of almost by reflex on rainy days: pajeon (a crispy green onion pancake) with a bowl of makgeolli, Korea’s milky rice wine. Some say it’s because the sizzle of the pancake in the pan sounds like falling rain. Either way, it’s the national combo of the rainy season.

    But jangma isn’t what it used to be

    Over the past several years, Korea’s rainy season has been changing in ways you can actually feel. Because of climate change, the old pattern of steady drizzle stretching over weeks has been giving way to something different: sudden, intense downpours that hit for an hour or two and then stop. The number of rainy days has actually gone down, but when it rains, it pours much harder. It’s now common for one neighborhood to get flooded while another part of the same city stays dry.

    The shift has been dramatic enough that the Korea Meteorological Administration stopped officially announcing the start and end dates of jangma. Korean meteorologists are even debating whether the concept of jangma needs to be redefined. Some people say Korea’s summer rain is starting to resemble the squalls of Southeast Asia.

    For travelers, this change means one thing: Korean weather during jangma is hard to predict. Even if the forecast says rain, it rarely rains all day. And even on a clear forecast, the sky can suddenly open up.

    If you’re traveling to Korea during jangma

    So should you cancel your trip? Not at all. Here’s my advice as a local.

    1. Build one “indoor card” into each day of your itinerary. Museums, galleries, big bookstores, and the cafés Korea is famous for. Seoul is not a city that runs out of things to do when it rains. When a downpour hits, locals simply step into the nearest café and wait it out. These sudden showers usually pass within an hour or two.

    2. Brace yourself for the humidity. During jangma, it’s the humidity that gets you, not the temperature. Breathable clothes and a spare T-shirt go a long way. Indoor spaces are heavily air-conditioned, so a light outer layer is worth packing too.

    3. Enjoy Korea in the rain. Palaces with thinner crowds, hanok cafés wrapped in the sound of rain, and the pajeon and makgeolli I mentioned earlier. There is a side of Korea you can only meet during the rainy season. Do what the locals do: find a pancake place, order a bowl of makgeolli, and listen to the rain. You might even start to welcome it.

    One more thing

    When jangma ends, Korea’s summer moves into its real heat wave. From late July through August, the days stay hot and humid. If you’d rather travel in cooler weather, early to mid June (just before jangma) or September and beyond may be the better choice.

    See you in the next letter.

    From a rainy Seoul, whigoori

  • My First Letter: Hello from Seoul

    Dear reader,

    Thank you for opening this letter. Since it’s my first one, let me start by telling you who I am and why I’ve decided to write to you.

    I’m a Korean living in Seoul. I’ve always loved discovering different cultures, and that love has taken me all over the world. Wandering unfamiliar alleys, eating what the neighborhood eats, and settling into the rhythm of a city for a little while. That’s what travel has always meant to me.

    Along the way, I learned one thing. The best travel advice rarely comes from tourists. It comes from locals. The restaurant a local friend recommended always gave me better memories than the famous one in the guidebook. Guidebooks tend to recommend the same places, but a local’s perspective captures the true character of a city.

    Lately, something has been happening in my city. Seoul is filling up with travelers from all over the world. I see them every day on the streets, in the markets, and on the subway. Whenever I do, I find myself thinking, “I hope they receive the same kind of warm, local guidance I was lucky enough to receive in other countries.”

    That’s why I’m starting these letters. I want travelers to experience Korea not as it’s packaged for tourists, but as we actually live it, and to return home with lasting memories. So I’ll be writing to you, one letter at a time, about the places and culture of Korea through the eyes of someone who calls this city home.

    About the name “whigoori”

    I should explain the name. Whigoori is a combination of two things I love: whiskey and neoguri (너구리), the Korean word for raccoon. Picture a whiskey-loving raccoon somewhere in Seoul, writing you letters. That’s me.

    What I’ll be writing about

    • Places locals actually go, both in Seoul and beyond.
    • Korean culture, including food, drinks, cafés, and the little things travelers often wonder about but rarely get a proper answer to.
    • And sometimes, whatever happens to be on my mind. That’s what letters are for, after all.

    See you in the next one.

    From Seoul, whigoori

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