A view from Lotte World Tower in December 2024 / Courtesy of Jeffrey Miller

As I emerged from the subway station, the old neighborhood hardly looked how I remembered it. Gone was the housing complex I once called home, along with the shopping center catty-corner across the street — even the subway station had changed, though only in name. However, as my eyes landed on Lotte World, still gleaming with its familiar whimsy and the aging apartment complex across the street, there was no mistaking that I was on familiar ground. The sight was a mix of the old and new, an apt metaphor for Korea itself — constantly transforming yet somehow holding onto fragments of its past.

It had been 34 years since I first arrived in southeastern Seoul's Jamsil neighborhood, not far from the Olympic Sports Complex. Fresh from the airport in 1990, I was wide-eyed and eager to begin a new chapter in a country that was at once unfamiliar and magnetic. My time there provided the foundation for a deeper connection, almost as if I were discovering my roots in Korea. Over time, that connection grew, woven through memories of my time in the neighborhood and the extraordinary changes I had both witnessed and lived through as Korea reshaped itself.

Jeffrey Miller's Jamsil home in 1990 / Courtesy of Jeffrey Miller

Jamsil was my introduction to Korea — a neighborhood seemingly suspended between the echoes of the country's economic boom of the 1970s and the bold strides of its burgeoning ambition. The boxy, uniform housing complexes, a legacy of the 1970s urban expansion driven by Korea's “Miracle on the Han River,” were practical solutions to rapid industrialization and population growth, their utilitarian design reflecting a nation focused on efficiency and progress. These structures, though unassuming, symbolized the country's determination to provide for its rapidly expanding urban population while laying the groundwork for a more prosperous future.

Lotte World, then a marvel of imagination and utility, rose above the neighborhood as a bold declaration of Korea's boundless potential. At the time, Lotte World, along with Yeouido's 63 Building and N Seoul Tower, perched atop Mount Nam in the city's center, were symbols of progress, standing as proud beacons of the country's aspirations. These landmarks reflected a Korea eager to claim its place on the global stage, embodying both the ingenuity of its people and the vision of a nation intent on forging a brighter future.

Jamsil 2-danji apartment complex in 1990 / Jeffrey Miller

Returning in 2024, I encountered a transformed Jamsil, its skyline dominated by Lotte World Tower, a shimmering, 123-story monolith that seems to touch the heavens. It was impossible to ignore its presence — a testament to Korea's meteoric rise from the challenges of the past to the heights of its global achievements. Just as 63 Building and N Seoul Tower had symbolized growth and modernity in 1990, Lotte World Tower now stood as a monument to Korea's unrelenting drive forward, an embodiment of the nation's remarkable journey over the past three decades.

Yet, the transformation wasn't just physical. In 1990, Korea was on the brink of profound changes, though the horizon still felt distant. The financial crisis of 1997 would test the country's resilience, forcing it to adapt with an intensity that defined its spirit. The nuclear crises with North Korea would cast long shadows, reminders of the lingering tensions on a divided peninsula. And then came hallyu, the Korean wave, which swept across the globe, reshaping Korea's cultural identity and its image in the eyes of the world.

Visiting the old neighborhood, I felt a surge of nostalgia, remembering a Korea that was both simpler and brimming with possibility. The old woman at the market who always seemed to have something to say, the dry cleaner's singsong call echoing through the parking lot, the warmth of community that transcended language barriers — all of it came rushing back. At the time, I could not have imagined how much the country would change, nor how deeply it would leave its mark on me.

For two years, Jamsil had been my home. That wasn't much time, but those years coincided with a pivotal moment in Korea's history. I arrived when the nation was riding high on the momentum of the 1988 Seoul Olympics, a symbol of its remarkable progress and growing global presence. In the years that followed, Korea would weather financial crises, navigate political and social challenges and rise as a cultural powerhouse with the Korean wave captivating the world. Through it all, I felt a deep sense of pride — not as a Korean, but as someone who has been part of its story, witnessing and sharing in the transformative journey of a nation coming into its own.

Apartments at Jamsil 5-danji in December 2024 / Courtesy of Jeffrey Miller

Walking through Jamsil, I wasn't just revisiting a neighborhood; I was retracing the steps of a younger version of myself, reflecting on how much had happened since those first tentative days in 1990. The Korea of my memory had transformed into something grander, more complex and yet, at its core, still familiar. Returning wasn't just about seeing what had changed — it was about recognizing what had endured. And in that, I found a sense of belonging that felt more rooted than ever.

For me, Jamsil will always hold a special place in my heart — not because it has remained unchanged, but because it embodies the heart of my journey in Korea. It is where my connection to this country first took root, where I learned to navigate a new culture and embrace its rhythm. Decades later, that connection continues to thrive, a testament to how a place can shape memories and the very fabric of who we become.

Jeffrey Miller is the author of several novels including "War Remains," a story about the early days of the Korean War, and "No Way Out," a thriller set in Seoul in 1990.