Korean Jjimjilbangs: Global Fame, Local Decline

It’s not the glitter or the choreography that stayed with me after KPop Demon Hunters. It was the bathhouse. In a dimly lit, steamy room—brimming with echoes of footfalls and low murmurs—Huntr/x launches into action. Shadows flicker across tiled walls as sudden movement announces the arrival of demons. In the chaos, Jinu’s eyes lock on Rumi’s arms—etched with glowing patterns, symbols of her hidden heritage.

That moment strikes more than any sword or spell. It’s a reminder that in culture, the bathhouse isn’t just a backdrop—it’s where secrets surface and truths are exposed. For international audiences, it’s framed as modern myth wrapped in Korean aesthetic; for many Koreans though, the setting is fading from life even as it burns bright on screens.

Across the country, jjimjilbangs and public baths are closing their doors. Rising costs. Changing hygiene standards. Shy cellular generations who’d rather post a spa selfie than knock on a sauna door. The steam may rise on film, but on the streets, it’s growing thinner.

Domestic Decline — Numbers on the Wall

Walk down the backstreets of any older Seoul neighborhood, and you can still spot the signs. Some are sun-bleached, their once-bright lettering flaking away: 목욕탕, 사우나, 찜질방. Push the door and you may find it locked, the front desk empty, the boiler room cold.

The numbers tell the story in sharper lines. Twenty years ago, Korea had close to ten thousand licensed bathhouses and jjimjilbangs. Today, the count has fallen by nearly half. In 2020 alone, more than two hundred closed — victims of the pandemic’s distancing rules. Many never reopened.

Owners speak of bills that climbed faster than they could raise admission prices. Gas, electricity, and water charges — the lifeblood of a place that must keep rooms hot and pools full — have risen steeply. Even when customers stopped coming, the boilers kept running. “Turning off the heat is like shutting down your own heart,” one owner in Eunpyeong-gu told me. “But keeping it on is killing us too.”

Beyond the balance sheets, the habits that once fed these places have shifted. Apartment bathrooms now come with spacious tubs and underfloor heating. The idea of gathering as a family to bathe — once part of the weekend rhythm — has given way to solitary showers at home. And for younger generations, the shared floor mats and plastic lockers of a jjimjilbang feel less like a communal treat and more like an outdated inconvenience.

Generational Divide — Different Rooms, Different Rituals

Step into a jjimjilbang on a quiet weekday afternoon, and the contrast is immediate.

Near the hottest pool, older men sit shoulder to shoulder, discussing cabbage prices, the week’s weather, and neighborhood news. In the salt room, women in their sixties stretch out on the heated floor, towels folded neatly under their heads. They are the regulars — people for whom the bathhouse is not a novelty but a familiar ritual. They know the staff by name, the hours when the tubs are empty, and the corner where the floor’s heat is just right.

For this generation, the jjimjilbang remains a place of routine, community, and comfort. It is woven into their weekly rhythm, a carryover from decades when private bathrooms were rare and public bathing was a shared necessity.

Younger visitors tell a different story. Many in their twenties and thirties grew up with fully equipped bathrooms at home and little reason to visit a public bath. When they seek relaxation, they often choose high-end spa lounges with curated playlists, designer robes, and Instagram-ready interiors. To them, the fluorescent-lit communal sleeping halls and vinyl mats of a traditional jjimjilbang can feel dated — far removed from the clean, aesthetic-driven spaces they expect.

This divide is measurable. Industry data shows that among Koreans over 60, monthly bathhouse visits average five times or more, while those in their forties and fifties average two to three visits. For people in their twenties and thirties, attendance often drops to once or twice a year. The shift reflects broader changes: apartment living now exceeds 75% of households, private bathroom access is nearly universal, and attitudes toward hygiene emphasize personal space and individual control.

The difference extends to design and experience:

It is this generational split that shapes how audiences react to the bathhouse scene in KPop Demon Hunters. For overseas viewers, it is vibrant, exotic, and steeped in cultural charm. For many Koreans, it is a snapshot from another era — part nostalgia, part relic, carrying the warmth of memory but also the sense that its time, in everyday life, may be passing.

Foreign Visitors — Novelty Meets Nostalgia

For foreign travelers, the jjimjilbang offers more than just a soak — it is an immersive dive into a uniquely Korean space.

Tourists from Japan, China, Europe, and North America often arrive with a checklist: try the heated salt room, wear the sheep-head towel, crack open a boiled egg, and sip sweet sikhye. These images, popularized through K-dramas, variety shows, and now animated films like KPop Demon Hunters, are instantly recognizable and shareable online.

Industry figures suggest that while domestic patronage is shrinking, foreign visits to bathhouses in key tourist districts are climbing. In Seoul’s Mapo and Yongsan areas, operators report that over 60% of their weekday customers are from overseas — a reversal from a decade ago, when locals made up the vast majority. The appeal lies in the contrast: to visitors, the communal halls, heated floors, and no-frills atmosphere feel authentic and adventurous.

For older Koreans, these same spaces are part of daily life’s past; for younger Koreans, they can seem outdated. For travelers, however, the novelty is the draw. Much like Japan’s onsen or Turkey’s hammam, the Korean bathhouse is seen as a cultural rite of passage — a must-try experience that offers both relaxation and a story to take home.

The economic impact is real. According to regional tourism boards, jjimjilbang visits are often paired with other cultural activities: night markets, traditional tea houses, or K-pop performance venues. This “cultural cluster effect” has made bathhouses a small but notable driver of spending in tourist-heavy neighborhoods.

Yet the reliance on international visitors creates a fragile business model. Seasonal tourism fluctuations, geopolitical tensions, and even changes in pop culture trends can sharply affect foot traffic. As one Seoul operator put it:

“Without the foreign guests, we’d be running at half capacity. Locals don’t come like they used to.”

The paradox is clear: abroad, the jjimjilbang is a vibrant ambassador of Korean culture; at home, it is a space many Koreans have left behind.

Post-Pandemic Shift — Hygiene, Costs, and the New Reality

The COVID-19 pandemic accelerated a decline that had been quietly unfolding for years.

In 2020 alone, nearly 270 bathhouses and jjimjilbangs shut their doors, many unable to survive months of mandated closures. Those that reopened faced a changed reality: heightened hygiene expectations, rising utility costs, and a customer base that had grown accustomed to staying home.

Public health guidelines introduced during the pandemic reshaped habits. Shared towels, communal sleeping rooms, and crowded hot pools — once unremarkable — began to feel risky to many. Even after restrictions eased, a significant share of former patrons, especially in their forties and fifties, did not return. Surveys by the Korean Bathhouse Association in 2023 indicated that over 40% of pre-pandemic regulars had not visited a facility in the past year, citing hygiene concerns as the main reason.

At the same time, operating costs surged. Gas and electricity prices rose by more than 30% between 2020 and 2023, hitting bathhouses especially hard. A single large jjimjilbang can spend millions of won each month just to heat pools and floors, even during low-traffic hours.
As one owner in Seoul’s Eunpyeong District explained:

“We raised the entry fee from 8,000 to 9,000 won and shut down one kiln room, but the math still doesn’t work. Utilities eat up everything.”

The combination of reduced local demand and higher fixed costs has forced many operators to either pivot or close. Some have rebranded as luxury spas targeting MZ-generation customers, offering private rooms, wellness programs, and influencer-friendly interiors. Others have partnered with hotels and tourist agencies to capture the foreign visitor market. Yet these strategies require capital, and smaller neighborhood bathhouses — once fixtures in every district — often lack the resources to reinvent themselves.

The pandemic didn’t just dent revenue; it rewrote the rules of public bathing culture in Korea. What was once a casual, everyday outing has, for many, become an occasional treat — or a memory.

Cultural Symbol vs. Living Tradition

To the outside world, the jjimjilbang feels timeless.
It is warm floors and soft towels. A place where friends sprawl in cotton uniforms, talking until the steam blurs their faces.
Korean dramas, variety shows, and lately KPop Demon Hunters have carried that image far beyond Seoul. For many, it sits alongside kimchi, K-pop, and hanbok — a shorthand for the country itself.

Inside Korea, the picture is different. Public bathhouses are no longer the fixture they were even twenty years ago. Private bathrooms are the norm. Hygiene habits have shifted. The old rhythm of a weekly family visit has thinned to a trickle. Some still go — mostly older regulars who have been coming for decades — but for many, the jjimjilbang is now an occasional detour, not a part of daily life.

It leaves the industry in a strange position.
Abroad, the bathhouse is thriving as a piece of “K-wellness,” pulling in curious tourists. At home, it survives by changing shape: a high-end spa in a shopping mall, a tourist-only stop on a bus route, a community sauna in an aging neighborhood. The two realities exist side by side, feeding each other yet pulling in different directions.

Whether the jjimjilbang can live in both worlds at once is an open question. The steam is still rising — in some places stronger than ever — but it will take more than nostalgia to keep it from fading.