The Host Who Lets Moments Linger
I never intended to become a hotelier. To be honest, I never even imagined myself as a business owner.
For most of my twenties and thirties, I lived abroad. I resided in an old apartment in Paris,
soaked in the sunlight of San Francisco, experienced the structured precision of Frankfurt,
and witnessed the chaotic, vibrant pulse of Casablanca. While these cities were worlds apart,
they shared one common thread: I was always a traveler. No matter how long I stayed,
I was never fully a local; no matter how familiar the streets became, I remained, in some way, an outsider.
Perhaps that is why I hold such a deep affection for travelers.
I recognize the look in their eyes—the slight nervousness upon arriving at the airport,
the quiet wonder of their first morning in a strange city, the joy of discovering a hidden alleyway while following a map,
and the bittersweet moment when they finally zip their suitcases shut at the end of a trip.
After twenty years of life abroad, I returned to Seoul and made my home in Cheongdam.
Many see Cheongdam as a district of opulence—a place defined by flagship luxury stores, celebrity agencies,
and high-end restaurants. That is not entirely wrong. But the Cheongdam I fell in love with is different.
At seven in the morning, Cheongdam is still. You see residents walking their dogs along the quiet residential streets. You catch the faint, comforting scent of freshly baked bread from a local bakery.
You see people in workout gear heading toward the Han River, and morning sunlight spilling through the windows of low-rise villas.
I loved this side of Cheongdam—the Seoul that tourists rarely see.
The Seoul hidden behind the glitz: the everyday, the lived-in, the authentic.
I realized then that I wanted to share this Seoul with those visiting the city.
I wanted to offer them a life, not just a destination; an experience, not just a checklist.
And so, I began to prepare a small space. I painted the walls myself, moved furniture, selected every piece of linen,
and curated each plate and wine glass. I wanted this space to be more than just a place to sleep;
I wanted it to be the starting point of someone’s life in Seoul.
I named it Maison de Pepperoni.
People often ask me about the name. It sounds a bit unusual, even whimsical.
To be honest, I still find it hard to give a perfect answer. But the name holds the things I love:
the playful, the warm, the slightly quirky, and the things that linger long in memory.
I hoped Maison de Pepperoni would become exactly that kind of place.
In the beginning, I thought I was simply running a guesthouse.
But over time, I realized the truth: I was not running a business. I was hosting stories.
A father and daughter from Germany, a nurse from Seattle, a lawyer from Phoenix,
an entrepreneur from Romania, a student from France. They all visited the same Seoul,
yet the Seoul they each encountered was entirely unique.
Some fell in love with the Han River; some were captivated by the local nail art culture;
others cherished the quiet, winding alleys of Cheongdam. And all of their stories passed through Maison de Pepperoni.
Maisondepepperoni.art is not a story about running a business. It is not a travel guide listing facts,
nor is it a success story. It is a record of the people I have met through this little house in Cheongdam,
and the moments they learned to love Seoul. Perhaps, more than anything, this blog is about people rather than the city itself. I simply did not want to let these stories fade away.
So, I began to write.
Cheongdam. Here, at Maison de Pepperoni. — Anna