Returning to Seoul – Rooftop Mornings, Protest Songs, and Saying Goodbye on the Han
Morning arrived without fanfare, and for the first time in days, I actually felt rested. We were on our own for breakfast — hotel buffet or fend for yourself. I chose the latter. One of my favorite things about Korea is the café culture. It’s something I genuinely miss in the States — the way it weaves itself into everyday life. Just next door to our hotel was a little café tucked into the corner of a side street. I popped in, ordered some of salt bread (a discovery I will never recover from), and an Americano — both of which had quietly become almost daily rituals. I ran into one or two people from the group on my way back in, but I had somewhere else in mind. The rooftop.
I’d heard about it the night before, but by the time we got back from our nighttime adventures, it had already closed. This morning, though, I had it to myself. I took the elevator up and sat on a soban (소반) — one of those multipurpose low tables that seem to show up everywhere in Korea, from gardening to eating to kimchi-making. The view was everything I’d hoped: misty hills cradling the edges of the city, the morning sun just beginning to burn off the haze. I sat in silence, soaking it in — trying to burn it into my memory.
In the distance, I heard chanting. A protest was happening at the nearby town hall, its energy rising and falling as it echoed off the buildings and through the otherwise quiet streets. During our trip, we’d seen quite a few — each for a different cause, a different group, a different fight. I’d seen these moments dramatized in the K-dramas that first pulled me toward Korean culture, but there was something very human — very real — about hearing the chants myself, carried on the wind. Eventually, the sounds faded as the march moved on. I stood, took one last look, and headed back to my room to grab my already-packed bags.
We were heading back to Seoul.
The drive was about three hours, with a pit stop in Cheonan to pick up the luggage we’d left before flying to Jeju. At the rest stop, we saw Dr. Woo’s family again and shared another round of truly excellent food before piling back onto the bus for the final stretch. Returning to the Ibis in Insadong felt like coming home. When I saw my room number, I froze — for a second, I thought I’d been assigned the exact same room as before. Turns out, I was just one floor down. It felt like déjà vu in the best way. The room even smelled the same. I unpacked slowly, sorting through all the things I’d brought from home and the bits and pieces I’d gathered along the way — receipts, ticket stubs, little talismans of the month I’d just lived.
That afternoon, we were free to explore. But the real event came later. That evening, we’d be taking a night cruise down the Han River — one last look at Seoul under the stars.
I met the others in the lobby and helped call taxis — something I’d become borderline professional at by this point.
It always goes like this:
“안녕하세요, 한국어를 잘 못해요. 티머니 카드로 계산하고 싶어요. 감사합니다.”
(Hello, I don’t speak Korean well. I would like to pay with a T-Money card. Thank you.)
From there, you either get silence and radio static — K-pop hits or old-school trot — or, if you’re lucky, an English-speaking driver who wants to know where you’re from and how you ended up here. Either way, the ride is always memorable.
The cruise was straight out of a drama — string lights, photo ops, cotton candy vendors, and just enough chaos to feel real. We boarded one of the last boats of the night, the kind that glides past Banpo Bridge (반포대교) just in time for the famous Moonlight Rainbow Fountain show. The boat was packed — tourists, locals, families, couples — and it was standing room only on the upper deck. I lost my group in the shuffle but found a spot at the railing just in time.
The breeze tangled in my hair, carrying with it the scent of the water and the soft hum of the city. Seoul at night is a different city. It sheds its commuter skin and becomes something else — luminous, hushed, alive. The skyline flickered as we drifted by, Seoul Tower casting its steady gaze from the mountain above. Neighborhoods blurred into one another like watercolor in motion. The boat was full of chatter and music and laughter, but I couldn’t stop thinking: this is goodbye. The fountain show was dazzling — arcs of water lit in rainbow hues dancing to the rhythm of the Han. And then we turned around.
The way back was quieter. Heavier, somehow. A little like grief. We were all still laughing and taking pictures, but there was a weight in the air. We had come to Korea full of wonder and uncertainty. For many of us, it was our first time this far from home, our first time in Asia. We’d crossed oceans and comfort zones, and now the journey was circling back. I stood at the railing, the city glittering behind us like a promise I didn’t want to let go of. I’d always dreamed of traveling like this — of seeing the world and feeling it. And now that I had, I knew I wasn’t done. I was just getting started.
We returned to the hotel late that night, each of us peeling off to our rooms. I curled up in bed and turned on the same K-drama I’d started watching the week we arrived — full circle in the best, softest way. Tomorrow would bring another goodbye, another last moment.
But for tonight, I was still here.
