Unlocking Secrets in the Heart of Seoul

Behind this city’s ultramodern facade, beyond the endless concrete walls and drab, boxy buildings that line the downtown streets, hides a unique, traditional culture where rare treasures like the kaleidoscope-painted palaces of Korean kings can be found. Seek them out and you’ll find other surprises, like busy herbal medicine markets, colorful folk villages and tranquil teahouses.

My husband, Kevin, and I spent a week last winter in a quest for these lingering traces of what’s often called the Hermit Kingdom. The sampling gave us a gratifying sense of a culture that is distinct from its Asian neighbors.

This land has been rocked by invasions and occupations--by the Mongols, Chinese and Japanese. But it managed to maintain its special character, partly by shunning the rest of the world and shutting itself off for centuries.

North Korea remains largely closed to outsiders. But in South Korea the doors are wide open to some resplendent jewels of history. One of the most magnificent is the royal residence Changdok-kung, which rests in the core of this bustling city.

Changdok-kung is one of five royal palaces still standing in Seoul. It has been twice destroyed and reconstructed; it is neither the largest nor the oldest of the palaces, but is the best preserved. It also retains its exceptional, classic Korean garden, known as Piwon.

Best of all, the dozens of Choson dynasty (1392-1910) buildings in Changdok-kung’s walled complex--many of them designated as national treasures--can be visited only on guided tours, keeping it a haven of quiet in a frenetic city. Our group of 50 was swallowed up in the vast grounds.

The bold and intense colors of Changdok-kung are dramatic examples of traditional Korean design. Whirlwinds of clashing reds, blues, oranges and greens cover every inch of wood. The soaring curves of the tile roofs seem to float on waves of dazzling bracketing.

But ornate doesn’t necessarily mean luxurious.

Our guide led us down long, bare arcades, across wind-swept courtyards and into wooden rooms so spare and drafty it’s hard to imagine royalty living there, as they did for 500 years.

Though the Japanese dethroned the last king of Korea in 1910, Changdok-kung was home to elderly members of the royal family until 1988.

Piwon, also known as the Secret Garden, was the king’s private park. We learned from our guide that, in contrast to some other Asian cultures, Korean art seeks to reflect emotion and in a simple, natural way. Piwon--once known as Kumwon, or the Forbidden Garden--certainly embodied that. In the low golden light of late afternoon, the still, melancholy garden seemed perfectly suited for the ruler of the Hermit Kingdom.

Paths wind through acres of lacy forest, past tile-roofed pavilions and down to a shady pond walled in mossy stone. The pond’s pleasingly aimless shape resolves itself into a map of the Korean Peninsula. You can imagine an elderly monarch, sitting here in solitude, fishing. This was the one place we found in chaotic Seoul that gave a clue to why Korea was once known as the “Land of the Morning Calm.”

We found another facet of traditional Korea thriving in the shadow of the Millennium Tower, the country’s newest skyscraper. At the end of a narrow alley near the main street of Chongno, marked with a tiny English sign, bustling Chogye-sa is the mother temple to the largest sect of Korean Buddhists.

Our visit came on a full moon day, a time of special observances. Worshipers packed the building and spilled into the courtyard, where grandmothers jostled to light thick white candles inscribed with prayers. The temple’s huge carved doors were thrown open, and inside, senior monks chanted in gray and brown ceremonial robes, their sleeves trailing almost to the floor.

Outside, the crowd followed intently, praying aloud and bowing on the frosty pavement. Many of the worshipers were older women, but businessmen and teenagers also chanted with fervor.

“It’s almost time for the university entrance examinations,” one grandfather said. “All mothers are praying for their children’s success.”

Nearby, the streets were a kind of spiritual bazaar. Shops here sell clothing for monks--padded gray tunics, baggy gray trousers, gray cardigans, and mittens and socks. Buddhist religious goods spilled out of tiny stalls and sprawled over blankets on the pavement: tapes and books and calligraphy brushes, altars and incense, gongs and beads.

English-speaking volunteers in the temple’s information center told us that, in this country where almost half the population professes to be Christian, the Asian economic crisis of 1997 had triggered something of a renaissance in Korean Buddhism. This faith, the guides said, has become a symbol of national identity--along with, I noted, the wearing of modernized versions of traditional garb.

In a constant reminder that Seoul is the heart of a powerful modern economy, giant electronic billboards downtown flash names like Samsung, Hyundai and Daewoo.

What is less obvious is that the city also remains a trading center for age-old products. A few minutes away from the vast clothing and electronics market of Tongdaemun, a cryptic note on a city map led us to a shopping center of a different sort: Kyongdong Traditional Medicine Market. It sprawls through the alleys behind the impeccably modern Midopa department store.

The best-known Korean remedy is ginseng, and staggering quantities are sold here, heaped in mounds by grade and origin. High-quality roots, used to treat everything from asthma to radiation sickness, are exported worldwide. Cheaper grades go to kitchens across Korea for use in dishes like samgyetang, chicken stuffed with rice and whole ginseng root.

The market also had an astonishing array of other medicines. Stalls were jammed with heaps of bark and tubs of live turtles, dusty sacks of wood, neatly tied bundles of dried centipedes with yellow legs. One shop appeared to sell nothing but tree fungus. If you don’t speak Korean, you can blissfully ignore the signs advertising dog meat and other items beyond the scope of any phrase book.

A few blocks farther east, the medicine stalls trailed off into a raucous country market where farm women sat on the pavement, bellowing to sell their produce. The vivid aroma of dried fish filled the air. We had come here at the end of the annual kimchi-making season, and a few tardy housewives were still haggling fiercely over mountains of red chiles and towers of Chinese cabbage used to make the spicy Korean condiment.

For a look at the city’s recent history, we paid a visit to a little-known museum, hidden in plain sight next to the U.S. Army base in Yongsan, not far from the Itaewon bar and shopping district.

The War Memorial, opened in 1994, houses a huge collection of artifacts from Korea’s centuries of struggle for nationhood, with special focus on the 1950-1953 conflict with Communist forces from the North.

There are battlefield scenes to walk through and tanks to climb on. But the most wrenching displays portray daily life during the war. The misery and deprivation shown in newsreels need no translation. Wax models depict scanty meals of coarse barley and pumpkin. Anyone who could survive the icy winter in those huts of cardboard and scrap wood clearly had the tenacity and determination needed to build a modern country from rubble.

We also found a living corner of Korea’s prewar past, tucked away in the suburb of Suwon. Though the Korean Folk Village sounded suspiciously like a theme park, it turned out to be a loving re-creation of a small farming town, complete with several dozen full-time residents. More than 200 old buildings gathered from the four corners of the country include farmhouses, a Confucian school, even a functioning temple. It’s all authentic, down to the farmers’ blue rubber shoes and the crocks of kimchi half-buried to ferment in the yards.

Puppies dozed on the verandas of thatch-roofed houses where persimmons were strung to dry under the eaves. In his workshop, a potter shaped a bowl with deft hands, while monks laid reverent offerings of rice before a statue of the Buddha. The brassy thunder of gongs announced a performance in the village center of the “farmers’ dance,” an acrobatic spectacle of brilliant colors and hypnotic swirling streamers.

At the far end of the village, open-air restaurants with English menus served dishes we saw nowhere else.

Among their offerings were met-twaeji (grilled wild boar) and dodokgui (a wild mountain vegetable). We opted instead for savory snacks of pajeon (batter-fried spring onions) and pindaettok (mung-bean pancake), and a large bowl of dong dong ju, top-grade rice wine. Dipped up with a ladle made from a split gourd, this drink was smooth and sweet but packed a deceptive punch. By the time we had reached the bottom of the bowl, ambitious plans for the afternoon were falling by the wayside.

The last day of our visit was spent prowling Insa-dong, a neighborhood of antique shops and craft galleries north of Chongno.

The area is hardly unknown to tourists; guidebooks insist on calling it Mary’s Alley, though we met no one who did.

This is Seoul’s most intriguing shopping area, where 20-cent sheets of chunky handmade paper lie next to antiques firmly in the “look-but-don’t-touch” price bracket.

Most foreigners miss out on the neighborhood’s other specialty: traditional teahouses. Korea produces green tea, and some here practice a Chinese-inspired tea ceremony. Authentic Korean teas are made from herbs and fruits. We stopped to rest our feet in a teahouse called Kwichon, a cozy cubbyhole run by the widow of Chon Sang-pyong, a renowned Korean poet, and decorated with mementos of his life.

A phrase book and a patient waitress helped us decipher the long menu. There were date tea, pine needle tea, citron tea. Teas of mushrooms or mugwort, ginger or quinces. I finally settled on ginseng tea with honey.

Waiting for our drinks, we listened to the spare, lyrical music of the taegeum, a bamboo flute. On the walls were Korean ink paintings, definitely Asian in theme but unfamiliar in style. When my tea arrived, in a rough but elegant handmade cup, it seemed to taste like Korea itself, at once earthy, sweet and pungent, a taste of a different Asia.

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GUIDEBOOK

A Little Bit of Seoul

Getting there: From LAX to Seoul, Korean and Asiana airlines fly nonstop; United and Northwest offer service with a change of planes. Restricted round-trip fares start at $919.

When to go: Fall, with its blue skies and dazzling leaves, and spring, with trees in blossom, are the best times. Winter temperatures are in the 40s and 50s. Summer is muggy; monsoon season is June through August.

Getting around: Seoul has a good subway system, well marked in English. Taxis are inexpensive, but language can be a problem. Most sites mentioned in this story are near subway stations. For the Korean Folk Village, take Line No. 1 to Suwon, then transfer to the free shuttle bus (marked in English) in front of Suwon Station.

Where to stay: Seoul has two main hotel areas, one downtown near City Hall and Chongno, the other south of the river in Kangnam. Kangnam holds little interest for visitors.

The lavish Westin Chosun, at 87 Sokong-dong, Chung-gu, was Seoul’s first Western-style hotel; telephone 011-82-2-771-0500, fax 011-82-2-752-1443, Internet https://www.westin.com. About $180 and up (way up).

The YMCA Hotel in Chongno (9 Chongno 2-ga, tel. 011-82-2-734-6884, fax 011-82-2-734-8003) is an inexpensive choice where some English is spoken. Rooms from about $40.

The Korea Budget Inns Reservation Center lets you make reservations in English at about 50 Korean-style inns (yeogwan) in Seoul. Rates range from $30 to $70. Tel. 011-82-2-757-0086, https://www.visitkorea.or.kr/english/index.html.

Where to eat: Samwon Garden, at 623-5 Shinsa-dong, Kangnam-ku, is a fine place to try Korea’s popular beef dish, bulgogi (about $10). Walk from Exit Three of Apkujong subway station toward Cine Plus Theater; local tel. 544-5351.

At the other end of the spectrum, San Chon, at 14 Kwanhun-dong, serves gorgeous set meals of mountain vegetable specialties (about $20). In Insadong, at the end of the second alley north of Han-il Bank; tel. 735-1900.

For more information: Korea National Tourism Organization, 4801 Wilshire Blvd., Suite 103, Los Angeles CA 90010; tel. (800) 868-7567 or (323) 643-0025, fax (323) 643-0028, https://www.knto.or.kr.