Stunning Korea

30/07/2026

One of my oldest hobbies is finding restrooms.

That probably sounds like an odd thing to say.

Ever since I was a child, I've loved exploring new places. I'd get on a bus or subway with no destination in mind and wander through neighborhoods I'd never visited before.

Whenever I went somewhere new, I always paid attention to the restrooms. I cared a great deal about cleanliness, so I naturally remembered which places had the cleanest ones.

Over the years, that habit turned into an unexpected skill.

One of my closest friends, whom I've known since childhood, likes to joke that the only thing I'm actually good at is finding restrooms. I usually answer that he's still as hopeless as ever, and we both end up laughing.

If you're visiting Korea, here's the one rule I've learned after decades of walking around Seoul.

Don't look for restaurants or cafés first.

Look for places that are designed to serve the public.

Subway stations are usually my first choice. Every station has a public restroom, and you don't need to ride the subway to use it.

If I'd rather avoid a busy restroom, I head to a public building instead. Libraries, district offices, community service centers, museums, police stations, and many supermarkets usually have public restrooms that anyone can use.

High-rise office buildings are another excellent option. Many have public restrooms in the lobby, and some even have quieter ones in the underground parking garage.

Hotels are also worth remembering. In my experience, most hotel lobby restrooms are open to visitors.

It may seem like a small detail, but I've always believed that clean public restrooms tell you something about how a city cares for the people who use it.

One of the things I appreciate most about living in Korea is knowing that, wherever I happen to be, there's usually a clean public restroom not far away.

It gives me the freedom to keep exploring.

If you ever visit Korea, I hope this small tip helps you enjoy the journey a little more.

27/07/2026

Every jesa in my house ended the same way: my parents arguing.

My mother spent days preparing the food for jesa (제사), the ancestral memorial rite Korean families hold on the anniversary of a relative's death. And almost every time, my grandmother found something to criticize. Too salty. Not enough seasoning. Arranged wrong.

My father's answer was always the same: this is just something the family does.

Turns out my family wasn't unusual at all. Every year before Chuseok and Seollal, Korean TV runs the exact same segment: how to survive the fights between mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law during ancestral rites. It's a running joke at this point. Except it's not really a joke for the women doing all the work.

For generations, shopping, cooking, arranging dozens of dishes, cleaning up after, all of it fell almost entirely on women. Meanwhile the ceremony itself got treated like something sacred and untouchable. Midnight timing. Formal hanbok. A bowl of rice piled high with a spoon standing straight up in it. Long silences while everyone waited, because the belief was that our ancestors had come home and deserved time to enjoy the meal first.

Here's the part that really got me though.

A lot of the specific "rules" for setting a jesa table, like which fruits go on which side, aren't actually ancient at all. Some trace back no further than a 1960s newspaper article. Even Sungkyunkwan, the institution most associated with Korean Confucian scholarship, has said these rules have no basis in the classical texts.

So families have been fighting for decades over how to properly follow a "tradition" that's barely older than television.

Midnight ceremonies mostly happen in daylight now. A lot of families have simplified things, some have stopped holding jesa altogether. But I don't think the real question, who does the work and who gets to just show up, ever really got answered.

It just got quieter.

Did your family have jesa growing up? Curious how different (or similar) it looked in your house.

23/07/2026

Why would an entire platoon be punished because one recruit was late?

When I first entered the Korean military, I couldn't understand why everyone had to suffer for one person's mistake.

The answer was a single Korean word.

Donggi (동기).

It means much more than simply joining an organization at the same time. For generations, it shaped how Koreans shared responsibility, endured hardship, and looked after one another.

The idea didn't stay in the military. I encountered it again years later in an office, where it explained workplace relationships just as clearly as it had explained life in boot camp.

In this week's article, I explore what donggi means and why understanding it helps explain a part of Korean society that many visitors never notice.

18/07/2026

Every Korean child has an invisible competitor.

The strange thing is...

He doesn't actually exist.

In Korea, we have a word for him: **Eomchina (엄친아).**

It literally means *"my mother's friend's son."*

Growing up, he was always better than you.

He got higher grades.

He got into a better university.

He found a better job.

No matter what you achieved, someone always seemed to know an Eomchina who had done just a little bit more.

The funny thing is that every Korean knows him.

Yet no one has ever met him.

As I grew older, I realized Eomchina isn't really a person.

He's an idea.

He represents a culture where comparison quietly becomes part of everyday life.

Not because Koreans enjoy competing.

But because generations grew up believing that falling behind wasn't simply disappointing—it could change your future.

That's why comparison in Korea often feels different from what many visitors expect.

It isn't just something people do from time to time.

For many, it's something they've lived with since childhood.

I'm curious:

Did your culture have its own version of "Eomchina"—someone everyone compared themselves to, even if they weren't entirely real?

If you'd like to read the full story about Korea's culture of comparison, you'll find the link in the comments.

16/07/2026

One day, I was sitting in a hospital waiting room with my friend's father.

My friend had stepped away to complete the admission paperwork, leaving me to wait with him.

A few minutes later, a name appeared on the screen.

The nurse called it again.

We stayed where we were.

Only then did I realize the problem.

I didn't know my friend's father's name.

By the time my friend came back, the doctor had already marked him as absent.

That moment would probably sound strange to many people.

But in Korea, it wasn't strange at all.

Growing up, I never called my friends' parents by their names.

They were simply "my friend's father" or "my friend's mother."

Using an older person's name felt unnatural because relationships mattered more than names.

As a child, I even remember being taught that saying your own parents' names casually was disrespectful.

Looking back, I realized this wasn't really about names.

It was about how Korean culture places relationships before individuals.

Sometimes, the biggest cultural differences aren't found in grand traditions.

They're hidden in the small things we never think to question.

I'm curious:

Has another culture ever made you realize that something you thought was completely normal wasn't normal at all?

If you'd like to read the full story about Korean names, family traditions, and the hidden meanings behind them, you'll find the link in the comments.

14/07/2026

Around this time of year, I often find myself thinking about an English gentleman who is no longer with us.

He was much older than I was, yet he always called me his friend.

We shared long conversations, and his curiosity about the world inspired me more than he probably ever knew.

But there was something I never told him.

If another Korean had asked who he was, I probably wouldn't have introduced him as my "friend."

Not because we weren't close.

We were.

The reason was much simpler.

He was older than I was.

That may sound strange to many people.

But in Korea, the word "friend" often means more than someone you're close to.

For many Koreans, it also implies someone who is the same age.

That's why one of the first questions Koreans often ask when they meet is, "How old are you?"

It's usually not about curiosity.

It's about understanding how the relationship should begin.

When I first realized that "friend" meant different things in English and Korean, I also realized something bigger.

Sometimes the hardest words to translate aren't the unfamiliar ones.

They're the ones we assume mean the same thing.

I'm curious:

Has a familiar word ever turned out to mean something completely different in another culture?

If you'd like to read the full story, you'll find the link in the comments.

12/07/2026

When I worked at a Korean company, I had a colleague who was exactly the same age as me.

Outside the office, we could have easily been friends.

Inside the office, he was my senior.

He had joined the company before I did, so I was expected to speak to him in polite Korean, greet him first, and treat him with the respect normally shown to someone above me.

Nothing about him had changed.
Only the setting had.
That was the moment I realized something important about Korean society.

In many cultures, relationships stay relatively consistent wherever you are.

In Korea, they can change depending on the context.
At work, hierarchy often takes priority.
At home, family roles matter.
With friends, age shapes the language you use.

The same two people can relate to each other differently depending on where they are and what roles they occupy.

For many foreigners, this feels confusing at first.

For many Koreans, it feels completely natural because we've grown up with it.

Understanding this helped me see that hierarchy in Korea isn't just about power.
It's about relationships, roles, and knowing what is expected in each situation.

I'm curious:

Have you ever experienced a culture where the same relationship changed depending on the situation?

If you'd like to read the full story—including why this system developed, how it connects to Confucianism, and why younger Koreans are beginning to challenge it—you'll find the link in the comments.

10/07/2026

I grew up in Seoul believing I had never learned Confucianism.
No one ever sat me down and said, "Today we're going to study Confucius."

Instead, I was taught something much simpler.
Respect your teachers.
Listen to your parents.
Be polite to older people.
Study hard.
Don't put yourself before the group.

To me, these weren't "Confucian values."
They were simply the right way to live.
It wasn't until I was an adult that I realized something surprising.

Almost everything I had been taught as common sense had been shaped by Confucianism.
That's one of the reasons Confucianism is so difficult for many visitors to notice in Korea.

It isn't obvious.
You won't see people talking about Confucius every day.
Most Koreans don't wake up thinking, "I'm following Confucian philosophy."

Yet its influence is everywhere—in the way we speak to older people, the way schools operate, the expectations within families, and even the culture of many workplaces.

It's like the operating system running quietly in the background.

You don't notice it until someone points it out.

That's why I believe you can't fully understand modern Korea without understanding Confucianism.

Not because Korea hasn't changed—it has changed dramatically.

But because many of the invisible rules people experience today were built long before any of us were born.

I'm curious:
Was there something you grew up believing was simply "normal," only to discover later that it came from your culture's history or traditions?

08/07/2026

A group of American friends once looked genuinely surprised when I told them I use skincare.

Not because I have an elaborate routine.
Not because I spend a fortune on expensive products.
Simply because I use any at all.
That surprised me just as much.

For me, applying lotion after washing my face is as normal as brushing my teeth. It isn't about looking younger or chasing perfect skin. It's simply part of my daily routine. Most Korean men I know would probably say the same.
That brief conversation made me realize something I had never questioned before.

What feels completely ordinary in one culture can seem surprisingly unusual in another.
It also led me to a much bigger question:

Why has appearance become so important in Korea?
The answer isn't as simple as "Koreans care about beauty."
It has a lot to do with history, the job market, social expectations, and the way Korean society has evolved over the past several decades.

That's the story I explore in my latest issue of Stunning Korea.

I'm curious—what's considered completely normal where you live, but would probably surprise people in another country?
If you'd like to read the full story, you'll find the link in the comments.

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08/07/2026

Welcome to Stunning Korea.

For more than a decade, I've had the privilege of introducing Korea to visitors from around the world.

During that time, I noticed something unexpected.

Most people didn't leave Korea talking about the palaces they visited or the food they ate. Instead, they left with questions.

Why do Koreans care so much about education?

Why are family relationships so different?

Why does hierarchy still influence everyday life?

How can such a technologically advanced country still be so deeply connected to traditions?

Over time, they changed the way I looked at my own country.

I realized that many of the things Koreans take for granted only make sense when viewed through history, culture, and the experiences that shaped our society. Yet most English-language content introduces Korea through destinations, food, or entertainment without connecting those pieces together.

That's what inspired me to start the Stunning Korea newsletter.

Here, I share research-based stories that connect Korean history, culture, society, and everyday life—not as separate topics, but as parts of the same story.

Some stories begin with history.

Others begin with a childhood memory, a conversation with a traveler, an old song, or an ordinary meal.

Wherever the story begins, it always leads to the same question:

Why did Korea become the way it is today?

That's the question I explore through Stunning Korea.

If that question interests you, I think you'll enjoy this journey.

Welcome to Stunning Korea.