[Cityscapes] Exploring central Seoul's disappearing Pimatgol area

A masked bartender serves guests at the abandoned Seoul Hotel, March 2008. / Courtesy of Ron Bandun

By Ron Bandun

Another large section of Insa-dong has been razed for urban renewal. The demolition zone is about the size of a soccer field, with signs at either end marking the historic alley known as Pimatgol. This part of Insa-dong, hidden from view on Jongno by a row of streetside buildings, had a long and humble history.

The alley came into popular use by commoners midway through the 1392-1910 Joseon Kingdom. Its name meaning literally "Avoid-Horse-Alley," it was a shortcut parallel to the capital's main thoroughfare, a way to avoid the traffic and delays caused by horse-transported aristocrats.

It remained an efficient route through modern times, and also housed a lot of rustic, affordable businesses ― bars, cafes and one delightful stretch that specialized in grilled mackerel. I'm told it was popular with university students in the 1990s, as you could enter at one end and keep walking until you found your friends.

But almost all of it has been wiped out, forgotten by Seoul's unsentimental redevelopment rush, or replaced by a bizarre shopping-mall version of what I call "neo-Pimatgol." Even as it was torn down section by section, it was celebrated; today you can probably see the small gate at the edge of the construction site.

Around 2008, shortly after Le Meilleur Jongno Town opened and right when buildings were being evicted for Gran Seoul (housing Shake Shack), there was some attention paid to the loss of this area. I first visited around then, on Jan. 13, and it immediately became a hotspot for urban exploration.

In March, a friend who'd been living in a goshiwon hostel in the area showed me around. Across the street from the Oktoberfest brewpub, which is still there, I saw a 12-story yellow-brick building marked for demolition. The gold letters said "Seoul Hotel." My friend breezed past this, saying it was abandoned, but I took a deep interest. Little did I know, I'd just encountered what would become my all-time favorite abandoned building.

After we parted ways, I returned alone to Seoul Hotel. A trilingual notice posted said the closing date was Dec. 31, 2007. The ground-floor entrances were all locked, but around a corner out of public view, I found a way to climb up to the second floor, where I entered through an open window.

Below me was the lobby, with red carpets, calligraphy on the walls and a chintzy chandelier. I wandered through the dark, looking for a way out. It was easy to unlock one of the back gates, allowing for easier access later. I vowed to return with friends, because on my own this place gave me what I called a "The Shining" feeling.

Masked urban explorers prowl the corridors of Seoul Hotel, March 2008. / Courtesy of Ron Bandun

I returned the following weekend with a couple of friends, and we explored the place top to bottom. On the ground floor we found two paper masks, similar to traditional Korean masks but decorated with colorful paste. We donned these to see the hotel through new eyes.

The suites were still serviceable, with blankets and pillows left on the mattresses, plus a TV, lamp and complimentary slippers in every room. Behind the building, a narrow walkway took us into a sauna.

Traveling by an external staircase rather than the internal pitch-black stairs, we made it up to the top floor, where we found a lounge, complete with a restaurant and private singing rooms. The bar was still well-stocked, and plastic food was out on display. We borrowed some of the plates and glasses and served ourselves wine and strawberries that we had brought along. The restaurant was well-lit, even without electricity, and the seats were only a little dusty. Of course we picked up after ourselves.

Two masked urban explorers enjoy wine and strawberries on the top floor of the abandoned Seoul Hotel, March 2008. / Courtesy of Ron Bandun

Down one floor, we found the singing rooms, bearing the name "Seoul Hooters." The actual U.S. Hooters had only come to Seoul the year before, and going by the tacky fonts used this place was not authorized.

Seoul Hooters was on the top floor of Seoul Hotel in Pimatgol. / Courtesy of Ron Bandun

After we exited safely, I posed my friends for a group photo out front, when suddenly three cops came around the corner. When they saw me taking the picture, they waited patiently for me to finish before walking through the shot.

I did not have to wait long before my next visit, as I'd left my phone behind. I returned the next day with someone close to me, and fortunately it was in the first place I looked. We revisited the sauna, finding a private massage room with a masseuse gown hanging on the wall. We borrowed it, laundered it at home and returned again soon after for a real staycation in one of the suites. The toilets had been plugged up with some kind of black coating, which wasn't great and smelled bad, but the beds were still clean.

This time when we left, we found a homeless man passed out on the sidewalk out front. We considered waking him and telling him that he was right inside an empty building with probably hundreds of accessible, clean mattresses inside. But we didn't, because we feared he would make it his home, even invite others, maybe set up a whole community ― and then demolition might catch them by surprise.

A masked urban explorer climbs on top of a table in a private entertainment room. / Courtesy of Ron Bandun

Seoul Hotel stayed standing for more than a year, providing ample time for plenty more memorable adventures, before I marked it as demolished in my database on May 27, 2009. Where it once stood, there is now an opening in Gran Seoul, a wide-open area where pedestrians can't walk, housing a sizeable memorial to the Joseon ruins they uncovered when the land beneath Seoul Hotel was excavated.

The Pimatgol that existed before has been erased and forgotten, all traces of the troubled 20th century erased in favor of 21st-century skyscrapers, built atop monuments to the distant past. Maybe someday, people will wonder what the area was like before it was all disrupted, and some might even yearn for those lost days.

Ron Bandun is a self-described "anarchaeologist."