Living Among the Rich—A gently hilarious, big‑hearted sitcom about chasing status and finding family on Seoul’s glossiest street
Introduction
The first time I watched Living Among the Rich, I felt that familiar pinch we all get when we walk past a boutique we can’t afford and wonder, “Would I be happier if I lived there?” Have you ever felt this way—equal parts hungry for a new beginning and terrified you’ll never fit in? This drama takes that quiet question and wraps it in 30‑minute episodes of banter, awkward dinners, and small acts of courage that feel huge. I laughed at the neighborhood’s absurd rules, winced when pride and envy knocked heads, and kept rooting for a mom who refuses to give up on joy. Before long, the show’s creaky boarding house felt like my own front door—a place where people stumble in, change a little, and stay for dinner. And by the end, I realized I wasn’t just watching a move to a fancier street; I was watching a home being built from scratch.
Overview
Title: Living Among the Rich (청담동 살아요)
Year: 2011–2012
Genre: Sitcom, Family, Slice of Life
Main Cast: Kim Hye‑ja, Oh Ji‑eun, Hyun Woo, Lee Sang‑yeob, Lee Bo‑hee
Episodes: 170
Runtime: 30 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: Currently unavailable on Netflix, Hulu, Disney+, or Viki in the U.S. (check back on Viki for future licensing updates).
Overall Story
On a blustery winter evening, Kim Hye‑ja packs up six decades of modest living and takes her daughter Ji‑eun to Cheongdam‑dong, the fabled heart of Gangnam wealth. Their new “dream home” is a tired two‑story building wedged between luxury storefronts, its first floor a dusty comic book shop and the second an improvised homestay. Ji‑eun is dazzled by glass facades and premium bakeries, convinced that a new address can rewrite an old life. Hye‑ja, wry and practical, measures the city not by handbags but by how quickly the boiler rumbles awake. The first week is a parade of tiny humiliations—confusing valet stands for public parking, misreading dress codes, and realizing the neighbors’ dogs have wardrobes more expensive than their own. Yet the final shot of that opening stretch is simple: a pot of kimchi jjigae bubbling as Hye‑ja smiles, “We’ll make it work.”
Early days turn strangers into accidental family. The comic shop lures in night‑owl students, a washed‑up talent agent who swears his next act will be huge, and a gentle, slightly awkward young man named Hyun‑woo who becomes a long‑term boarder. Upstairs, the homestay fills with dreamers and drifters who share bathrooms and blurt out secrets in the hallway at midnight. Ji‑eun, trying to keep up with the neighborhood’s polished daughters, bounces between part‑time jobs and humiliating interviews where managers judge her shoes before her resume. Cheongdam‑dong’s famed plastic surgeon clinic becomes a recurring backdrop—equal parts satire of appearances and a mirror for Ji‑eun’s insecurity. Every episode ends with someone a little more honest than they were that morning. And every night, Hye‑ja counts the day’s sales like beads on a rosary, whispering thanks for what they have.
As routines settle, the comedy sharpens into affection. Hyun‑woo learns the shop’s regulars by the creak of their steps on the stairs. The former screen diva Bo‑hee, once trailed by paparazzi, now sneaks into the comic shop for quiet mornings and bargains she can’t resist, swapping fame for fellowship. Lee Sang‑yeob appears as a dependable neighborhood friend who sees Ji‑eun without the filter of brand names or borrowed heels. They share bus stops, spilled coffees, and the kind of inside jokes that make the world feel survivable. When Ji‑eun confesses that she’s terrified of being “found out,” Sang‑yeob doesn’t fix her life; he offers to carry boxes and walk her home. The show teaches that sometimes love looks like showing up with duct tape and two hands.
The writers sketch Cheongdam‑dong with a twinkle and a sting. There are apartment association meetings where decorum doubles as a weapon, and charity galas where generosity is choreographed for the cameras. Hye‑ja’s thrift and candor clash with rules written to keep people like her politely outside the velvet rope. Yet the ropes loosen at the oddest moments: a neighbor’s broken elevator becomes a communal workout; a power outage turns a lobby into an impromptu campfire of smartphone flashlights and honest conversation. The series keeps asking a quiet question: Is luxury a price tag or a posture? The laughter lands because the answer arrives in people, not purchases.
Pressure sneaks in through bills and redevelopment rumors. The street buzzes with whispers that the older buildings will be razed to “modernize the block,” a phrase that makes Hye‑ja’s hands shake as she tallies receipts. If you’ve ever compared rising rent to the dread of watching mortgage rates climb, you’ll recognize the way fear makes even normal days feel heavy. Ji‑eun considers a bold shortcut—a makeover, a borrowed bag, a networking party—to break into the boutiques that keep rejecting her. But shortcuts cost more than they promise, and the show lets her fail in small, tender ways that keep her dignity intact. At home, Hye‑ja tightens their belts and widens their table, feeding more people with less.
Mid‑series, the boarding house becomes the neighborhood’s confession booth. A plastic surgeon reveals he’s lonelier than his flawless lobby suggests; an idol trainee admits that talent and timing don’t always hold hands. The old comic shop, once a punchline, turns into a refuge where people return to stories that don’t judge them. Hyun‑woo steps up with unexpected steadiness—repairing shelves, defusing petty fights, and teaching Ji‑eun that reliability is romantic. Bo‑hee drops her actress hauteur and starts washing rice in the kitchen, humming a tune from her glory days as flour dusts her eyelashes. The laughter is full‑bodied here—born from recognition, not ridicule.
As redevelopment heats up, battle lines are drawn with glossy brochures and hushed threats. The homestay crew debates: take a payout and scatter, or fight for a building that squeaks when you breathe? Hye‑ja, who has quietly absorbed every slight, finally says the thing that steadies everyone: “This address doesn’t make us. We make this address.” Have you ever needed someone to speak your worth out loud before you believed it yourself? That’s the air the show breathes in these episodes. The group chooses to resist—not with lawsuits they can’t afford, but with visibility, community events, and stubborn presence.
Romance stays human‑sized and beautifully awkward. Ji‑eun and Sang‑yeob try a “fancy” date that implodes under the weight of too many forks and too much silence; their second try is kimbap on a bench, laughter doing what menus couldn’t. Hyun‑woo’s quiet glances become words, then actions that change where people sit and how they feel safe. Even Bo‑hee finds an unexpected companion in a neighbor who remembers her not for the roles she played but for the person she is when the camera is off. The show refuses to punish ambition; it merely asks it to hold hands with kindness. In a neighborhood famous for curated lives, authenticity turns out to be the rarest luxury good.
The financial strain never vanishes, and the series treats money with unsentimental clarity. Hye‑ja considers a small business loan to weather a slow season, then decides to grow slowly rather than gamble the roof over their heads. Ji‑eun, humbled yet hopeful, learns to build a career from skills, not optics, and accepts that the “best streaming service” for a lonely night is sometimes a table full of neighbors and a battered DVD player. The characters keep choosing people over polish, repairs over replacements, and steady over flashy. And each choice becomes a stitch in a sturdier life.
In the final stretch, eviction deadlines press in, but so does solidarity. The neighbors who once rolled their eyes at the comic shop now show up with folding chairs, snacks, and stories—turning a farewell into a block‑party rehearsal for staying. A small compromise with the developer preserves the storefront, and the boarding house shrinks but survives—a pragmatic victory, the show’s favorite kind. Ji‑eun steps into a new job that values her grit; Hye‑ja teaches a teenager to make kimchi and jokes that recipes are “inheritance without taxes.” When the lights go out on the last episode, the building still creaks, the rice still steams, and the laughter is still loud. It’s not a fairy‑tale ending; it’s better—it’s believable.
Highlight Moments
Move‑In Day, Broken Elevator, Unbroken Spirit The family’s first night in Cheongdam‑dong is a slapstick symphony—an elevator that quits, boxes that burst, and a rainstorm that drips straight into the living room. Ji‑eun nearly cries over a ruined pair of heels, while Hye‑ja rigs a tarp with broomsticks like a battlefield general. Neighbors pass by with delicate umbrellas and delicate expressions, pretending not to stare. Yet when a delivery man shares hot soup, the mood flips from despair to a tender, soggy camaraderie. That’s the show’s thesis in miniature: strangers and small kindnesses beat bad weather and worse odds.
The Makeover That Backfires Determined to “look the part,” Ji‑eun borrows a luxury bag and books a high‑end salon recommended by a customer. The mirror loves her; the interviewers do not, sniffing out insecurity beneath the shine. On the subway home, a strap snaps and she’s left holding an image that can’t carry weight. Sang‑yeob meets her with fried chicken instead of questions, and she laughs through tears. It’s the moment she stops chasing approval and starts learning craft.
The Plastic Surgeon Next Door A famed clinic director moves into the building’s orbit, bringing gift baskets and a practiced smile. Jokes about “discounts for neighbors” give way to quiet scenes where he admits that perfection is exhausting and gratitude is an unmarketable skill. A late‑night power cut strands him in the stairwell with Hye‑ja, where he hears the creak of old wood and calls it “alive.” In a district built for gleam, the episode lets imperfection glow. The clinic stays fancy; the man coming down the stairs becomes real.
Redevelopment Rumors, Kitchen Table Strategy Flyers appear promising modernization; rents twitch upward as fear moves in. The boarding house becomes a war room of calculators, sticky notes, and rice bowls. Hye‑ja almost signs the first lowball offer before Hyun‑woo, voice shaking, asks, “Will we ever afford to come back?” They choose visibility over surrender—flyers of their own, open‑doors nights at the comic shop, and invitations that say, “If we go, you lose us.” It’s a quiet rebellion that feels loud in a place where silence is golden.
Mother–Daughter Reckoning After a bitter argument, Ji‑eun blurts that Cheongdam‑dong is “her dream, not ours,” and Hye‑ja hears every unsaid accusation. The two spend a day apart—Hye‑ja scrubbing shelves, Ji‑eun wandering boulevards that suddenly feel like museums. That night, they meet on the stairs and trade apologies that sound like promises. “You don’t have to become someone else to live here,” Hye‑ja says, pressing rice into Ji‑eun’s hand. The camera lingers on the banister, worn smooth by people who kept climbing.
A Small Victory, A Bigger Family The finale threads its needle with compromise: a preserved storefront, a smaller homestay, and a community that decides to remain neighbors in practice if not in floor plans. Bo‑hee donates old posters to brighten the comic shop; the talent agent hosts an open‑mic that’s mostly off‑key and entirely perfect. Ji‑eun lands a job that values late nights and ledgers more than labels. When the sign flickers back on, everyone cheers like it’s New Year’s. It’s not wealth that wins—it’s belonging.
Memorable Lines
“This address doesn’t make us. We make this address.” – Kim Hye‑ja Said at the kitchen table as redevelopment letters pile up, it reframes the battle from real estate to self‑respect. The line steadies the family and their boarders, turning fear into focus. It also nudges the wealthy neighbors to see value measured in memory, not marble. From here on, every shared meal feels like quiet resistance.
“I wanted to be chosen. I forgot I could choose.” – Oh Ji‑eun After a failed interview and a snapped handbag strap, Ji‑eun finally sees how chasing optics made her smaller. The confession opens space for better choices—skills over signals, patience over pretense. It deepens her bond with Sang‑yeob, who has been choosing her all along in ordinary ways. The show uses this moment to pivot from fantasy to growth.
“Perfect is a lonely apartment.” – Plastic surgeon neighbor Spoken in a dark stairwell during a blackout, the line unclenches his careful smile. He stops performing and starts participating—hauling water, sharing snacks, asking names. The quote punctures Cheongdam‑dong’s gleam with a human truth that lights up the rest of the episode. After this, he shows up not as a sponsor, but as a friend.
“If we can laugh, we can last.” – Hyun‑woo Offered during a night of inventory disasters and overdue bills, it’s the show’s comedic spirit distilled. Hyun‑woo’s reliability tempers panic, and the group’s laughter turns from coping mechanism to community glue. The line signals his quiet leadership, as he shifts from boarder to anchor. It’s also the permission slip the series gives us: keep laughing, keep going.
“I thought fame fed me. It was you.” – Bo‑hee After an impromptu dinner service at the comic shop, the former star realizes applause was never the meal. The boarders, with their messy lives and open hands, become her real audience. The admission redefines her arc from comeback to communion. From then on, she cooks more than she poses, and it’s lovely.
Why It's Special
“Living Among the Rich” is the kind of slice‑of‑life comedy that sneaks up on your heart. It begins with a mother and daughter who move to the glossy streets of Cheongdam-dong, certain that a new address will change their fate—and discovers, with wry humor, that true upgrades happen inside us. First things first for viewers who want to find it: the series originally aired on JTBC from December 5, 2011 to August 3, 2012. As of February 12, 2026, episodes are available in South Korea via TVING (accessible through Apple TV in KR), while a title page with multi-language subtitles exists on Rakuten Viki but availability varies by region; several aggregators currently list no active global streaming options. If you’re searching from outside Korea, check regional platforms; don’t confuse this sitcom with the unrelated 2012 romance “Cheongdam-dong Alice” on Netflix. Have you ever felt that thrill of a fresh start—and the shock when life doesn’t instantly sparkle?
What makes the show singular is how warmly it frames aspiration and dignity. The laughs land softly, never punching down at people who dream of more. The rhythms feel like real life—neighbors popping by, an errand turning into a mini‑adventure, a small misunderstanding blooming into a day’s drama. You start to recognize yourself not in the penthouses but in the upstairs room over a comic-book shop where family, debts, and hope crowd together.
Anchoring this everyday poetry is a luminous matriarch whose presence wraps the whole boarding house in gentle authority. Her timing, the way she says a simple “why not try?” and the way silence follows, gives the comedy a quiet afterglow. If you’ve ever juggled optimism and rent, you know the pulse of this series.
The writing threads humor through small humiliations—lost receipts, borrowed scarves, status games—then folds in grace notes about class without sermonizing. Those intimate beats foreshadow the humane sensibility writer Park Hae-young would later refine in talk‑of‑the‑town dramas; you can feel the seeds of that empathy here, laughing with people rather than at them.
Direction is nimble and affectionate. Kim Seok‑yoon frames Cheongdam’s glitter from alley-height, turning what could be glossy montage into lived‑in comedy. If you’ve seen how he later guided a masterful performance arc for Kim Hye‑ja in “The Light in Your Eyes,” you’ll recognize his instinct for pairing whimsy with wistfulness.
Tonally, “Living Among the Rich” blends situation comedy with the ache of almost‑there dreams. Episodes are bite‑sized but surprisingly layered, toggling between sitcom set‑ups and character moments that linger after the punchline. It’s comfort viewing that still nudges you to ask: What truly counts as “moving up”?
The neighborhood is a character of its own: Cheongdam-dong’s boutiques, white‑glove counters, and hushed cafes are portrayed as both playground and mirage. The series captures the cultural shorthand of Gangnam’s “luxury real estate” aura while gently deflating it, reminding us that warmth, not wealth, makes a home.
Finally, the ensemble chemistry is disarmingly cozy. Daily-episode cadence lets friendships, flirtations, and kitchen‑table truces breathe. You begin to crave the bustle of that comic shop downstairs and the laughter upstairs, where dreams and dinner plans share the same small table.
Popularity & Reception
When JTBC launched, all eyes were on whether its lineup could find traction. “Living Among the Rich” helped answer that early, opening its first week above the 1% mark—no small feat for a brand‑new general programming channel—signaling that its modest, human stories resonated amid flashier debuts.
The sitcom’s run—170 weekday episodes—helped establish JTBC’s identity for warm, character‑driven storytelling. That longevity, coupled with its early-evening slot, built a routine intimacy with viewers who tuned in as if checking on neighbors.
Internationally, the show cultivated a quiet afterlife. A dedicated title page on Rakuten Viki, complete with multiple subtitle options, reflects sustained interest from global K‑drama fans, though regional licensing has fluctuated over time. For many outside Korea, it’s a “seek‑it‑out” gem rather than an algorithm push.
Audience word of mouth remains generous. On community‑driven sites and databases, viewers consistently cite its charm and relatability; even years later, the show maintains solid user scores and nostalgic comments that recall cameos, running gags, and a sense of being “adopted” by the boarding house.
While it wasn’t an awards juggernaut, the series’ legacy feels tangible in JTBC’s later hits that marry compassion to comedy—and in the way high‑profile cameos (hello, Yunho’s episode‑one entrance) created early buzz that grew into long‑term affection.
Cast & Fun Facts
Kim Hye‑ja turns the household’s beating heart into a masterclass of micro‑expressions: a furrow when pride pricks, a twinkle when mischief beckons. Her Hye‑ja is practical yet endlessly soft, the kind of landlady‑mom who counts pennies and people with equal care. Watching her negotiate status games with kindness (and the occasional deadpan zinger) is the show’s quiet magic.
It’s also fascinating to see her comedic ease evolve, especially if you know her towering dramatic turn in Bong Joon‑ho’s film “Mother.” There, she carved a legend; here, she loosens that gravity into warmth without losing depth—a testament to range that few actors possess.
Oh Ji‑eun plays Ji‑eun with the buoyancy of someone who believes style can solve anything—and the vulnerability of someone learning what actually sustains a life. She tumbles through crushes, faux‑pas, and fashion detours with such sincerity that you root for every tiny victory, from a new scarf to a new slice of self‑respect.
Across her career, Oh Ji‑eun has excelled at roles that balance pluck and poignancy, later earning recognition in titles like The King of Dramas, Cheo Yong, and more. That balance is already fully alive in Ji‑eun, sparkling on the surface and surprisingly tender underneath.
Hyun Woo brings an endearing steadiness—the neighbor you call when the boiler sputters or when your heart does. His comedic beats often arrive with a shy smile or a well‑timed pause, and he’s terrific at letting silences earn their laugh.
Viewers who discovered him here may have later followed his varied path—from hosting Music Bank to a brief foray into a K‑pop project group—proof that his gentle charm adapts across formats without losing authenticity.
Lee Sang‑yeob embodies the boy‑next‑door type with professional ambitions and a disarming sincerity. He’s the guy who holds the elevator, then holds a room’s attention without ever trying too hard—a natural foil to bigger personalities in the boarding house.
His later rise across melodramas and weekend hits made many fans look back on this sitcom as an early sign of his versatility. You can see the seeds: a light touch with comedy and a clean line into earnest emotion, both welcome in any neighborhood story.
Lee Bo‑hee is a scene‑stealer, playing into and against the expectations that come with seniority in a society obsessed with appearances. She can sharpen a line to a social dagger, then follow it with a hug that undoes all pretension.
Her stature in Korean screen history—the “troika” era of the 1980s, a shelf of major awards—adds delicious meta‑layers. When she swans into a frame, decades of star aura mingle with sitcom silliness, and suddenly a living room feels like a little stage.
A favorite bit of trivia: the show’s early episodes sprinkled in buzzy cameos, including an unforgettable appearance by TVXQ’s Yunho as a hilariously self‑absorbed star—and later, a wink to idol culture when BEAST’s Yoon Doo‑joon dropped by the comic shop, sending the boarding house (and viewers) into squeals.
Behind the camera, director‑producer Kim Seok‑yoon and writer Park Hae‑young give the series its compassionate spine. Kim’s gift for balancing whimsy and weight would later shine in “The Light in Your Eyes,” while Park’s journey from sitcoms to acclaimed human dramas like “My Mister” and “My Liberation Notes” begins here in the small mercies between punchlines.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’re longing for a show that believes ordinary people are extraordinary—where small kindnesses change lives—“Living Among the Rich” is your next comfort watch. Check regional platforms first; if you travel often, a reputable best VPN for streaming can help you keep up with your subscriptions within local laws and terms. And as the series gently pokes at status, it may nudge you to rethink what “luxury real estate” really means, or how chasing credit card rewards compares to the richer dividends of community. Have you ever felt this way—standing on a fancy street and realizing the best part of your day waits upstairs, at your own crowded table?
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