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I’ve always believed that the heart of Seoul isn’t found in guidebooks or trendy spots, but in the quiet corners — the tiny restaurants, hidden cafés, and backstreets that tell their own stories. Hidden Seoul Food began as my way of sharing those discoveries — places I’ve stumbled upon by chance, meals that surprised me, and spaces that capture the city’s soul. This blog is for anyone who loves exploring what’s unseen, tasting what’s forgotten, and finding beauty in the hidden sides of Seoul.
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Where the River Once Ran Low: A Fall Afternoon at Ttukseom
I faintly remember catching mudfish with my bare hands at Ttukseom when I was very young—back when the Han River ran low enough to reveal sandy stretches that felt like hidden beaches. It sounds almost mythical now, especially to the MZ generation, who might laugh at the idea of fishing in what’s now one of Seoul’s most polished urban parks. But there truly was a time when I caught mudfish and my aunt cooked them for me right after—simple, earthy, unforgettable.
Those days are long gone. After the construction of several dams and weirs along the Han River in the late 20th century—part of Seoul’s efforts to prevent flooding, stabilize water levels, and support urban development—the river no longer runs low. The tidal ebb and flow that once revealed its sandy banks have been replaced by a constant, carefully managed depth. With that, the beaches of my childhood—and the mudfish that wriggled beneath my hands—disappeared into history.
The Ttukseom of today is a completely different world. The once muddy, unkempt riverside has transformed into a beautifully designed park where art, leisure, and nature coexist in harmony. Sculptures and installations blend effortlessly with trees and wildflowers, each piece looking as though it has always belonged there.
From the northern bank, I look across the river toward the affluent south side of Seoul, where sleek towers rise in quiet confidence. The sturdy bridges now connecting both sides stand as symbols of progress, yet they also divide two different eras of memory—mine, and the city’s.
As the autumn sun begins to set, its golden light spills gently across the calm river. The scene fills me with a quiet melancholy. I find myself wondering—where am I now, what paths brought me here, and how the child who once played in the shallow river would see this transformed skyline.
Standing in Ttukseom Hangang Park, between memory and modernity, I feel the pulse of a city that’s always changing—yet still carries echoes of the river that once ran wild and low.
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