The short answer

  • Korea peaked at 9,919 registered bathhouses in 2003. By 2022 there were 6,012, a survival rate of about 35%.
  • Seoul is starker: 1,764 bathhouses in 1995, around 510 in 2025, a fall of 71%.
  • Entry runs roughly 9,000 to 10,000 won. A full body scrub adds about 25,000 won on top.

If you have been to a jjimjilbang, you have not been to a bathhouse. You have been to the thing that replaced it.

The 목욕탕 (mogyoktang) is the older and plainer institution: a hot pool, a cold pool, a row of low showers with plastic stools, a scrub table, and a tiled room full of steam. No sleeping room, no snack bar, no 24-hour opening. It was where a Korean neighbourhood washed before Korean homes had bathrooms of their own, and it is vanishing at speed.

How did Korea get public bathhouses in the first place?

Slowly, and against resistance.

The first attempt was in Seorin-dong, central Seoul, in 1905. It closed almost immediately: the idea of stripping naked among strangers was culturally unacceptable. The institution that stuck arrived with colonial-era urban life, opening in Pyongyang in 1924 and Seoul in 1925, and for its first years the customers were overwhelmingly Japanese residents rather than Koreans.

The first bathhouse formally licensed by Korean authorities was Geumjeongtang in Dongnae, Busan, on 31 January 1954. Three licences were issued that year. Bathing out was still expensive enough into the early 1970s to be regarded as a small luxury; it was the public health campaigns of that decade, in a country where most homes had no hot water, that turned the bathhouse into a weekly routine and built the surrounding culture of the scrub, the Italy towel and the banana milk on the way out.

Geumjeongtang closed in January 2013.

How fast are they closing now?

9,919
Registered bathhouses nationwide at the 2003 peak — one per roughly 4,800 people
6,012
Remaining nationwide in 2022, a survival rate of 34.8%
1,764 → 510
Seoul bathhouses, 1995 peak to 2025 — a 71% decline
+14.1%
Year-on-year rise in the bathhouse component of the consumer price index, May 2023 — the sharpest since 2008

📉 Registered bathhouse businesses over time

YearNationwideSeoulNote
19543 licensed—Geumjeongtang, Busan, the first on record
1995—1,764Seoul peak
20039,919—National peak
2004——Closures (725) exceed openings (639) for the first time
20088,795—Falls below 9,000
20226,012—Survival rate 34.8% against 2003
2025not publishedabout 510Seoul down 71% from 1995

The industry data also shows what is replacing them. Traditional communal bathing accounts for roughly 80% of the licensed category and has effectively stopped opening new premises. The growth, such as it is, comes from small specialist scrub and body-care shops registered under the same licence class.

What does it cost to keep a bathhouse open?

More than it earns, increasingly.

One sauna in Jung-gu, central Seoul, licensed in 1998 and still trading after twenty-eight years including the pandemic, is winding up with accumulated losses of about 400 million won. The mechanism is not subtle: heating tens of thousands of litres of water is a gas bill, and when utility prices spiked in 2022 and 2023 the bathhouse component of the consumer price index rose 14.1% year on year in May 2023, its steepest since December 2008.

That leaves operators in a closed loop. Raise the price and customers stop coming; hold the price and the losses compound. In Chuncheon, one bathhouse went from 9,000 to 10,000 won and a neighbouring one from 7,000 to 9,000, with the owner saying openly that the plan is to stop trading when the three-year lease runs out. Gangwon Province still had 292 bathhouses operating in 2026, with 27 closing over three years: 12 in 2023, 6 in 2024, 9 in 2025. Its average entry price reached 9,444 won by November 2025, up from 9,222 won a year earlier, edging toward a psychological 10,000 won line operators say they cannot cross without losing the last of their regulars.

The four forces

  • Plumbing. The bathhouse existed because homes had no hot water. Korea's apartment boom put a bathroom in essentially every dwelling, and the daily customer became a monthly one.
  • Fuel. Gas and water are the entire cost base, and both have risen faster than the price customers will accept.
  • Succession. These are family businesses run by owners now in their seventies. Almost nobody is inheriting one.
  • Land. A two-storey bathhouse with a boiler room sits on a plot that a developer values considerably more highly than the boiler does.

What does the decline look like inside one building?

Jungangtang, in Gyedong in central Seoul near Jungang High School, registered its business in 1969 and had been operating informally before that. The building started life as a changing and shower facility for the school’s sports teams, and when it was rebuilt the headmaster attended the bricklaying ceremony. Over the decades its customers included a former president, corporate executives and television personalities.

At its peak it saw more than 200 customers a day and employed twelve people. It now sees ten to twenty a day and employs three.

Wonsamtang, on Wonhyo-ro in Yongsan, is often described as the oldest surviving bathhouse in Seoul. The building was completed in 1965 and the business opened shortly after; the current owner took it over in 1987. It has appeared on national television as a set piece of vanishing Seoul, which is its own kind of epitaph.

The Italy towel. The rough green mitt used for scrubbing is called an 이태리타올, an "Italy towel", and it is entirely Korean. It was developed in Busan in the 1960s by Kim Won-jo of Hanil Textile, who took Italian viscose rayon yarn, twisted and wove it locally on Japanese machinery, and produced a fabric abrasive enough to replace the rolled towels and small stones Koreans had been scrubbing with. The utility model registration lapsed in 1976, which is why nobody owns it and everybody sells it. It does not exist in Italy.

Who are the scrubbers?

세신사 (sesinsa), the formal term for what used to be called 때밀이 (ttaemiri), the scrub worker. The job has changed shape considerably.

Until the 1990s it was learned by apprenticeship, with trainees living at the bathhouse and working unpaid while they learned. Today most come through training schools. There are two employment models: salaried staff of the bathhouse, or freelancers who pay the owner a form of pitch rent for the right to work the scrub table and keep their own takings, reportedly netting three to four million won a month after that payment.

A basic scrub runs about 25,000 won for men and around 35,000 won for women, who are more often offered add-ons like face packs and massage, and takes roughly twenty-five minutes. Men’s scrubbers work in black trunks, women’s in a bra and tank top. The shift from “scrubber” to “bath manager” in the job title is part of a broader professionalisation, which coexists with a persistent social stigma that leads many practitioners not to name their occupation.

How is a jjimjilbang different, exactly?

Structurally and legally entangled. A jjimjilbang has to include bathing facilities to be licensed, and a bathing facility without a jjimjilbang attached is increasingly the exception rather than the rule.

♨️ Mogyoktang, jjimjilbang, sauna and spa compared

TypeWhat it isHoursRough priceExtras
MogyoktangHot, cold and hot-hot pools, showers, scrub tableDaytime, not 24h₩9,000–10,000Scrub, sometimes a barber
JjimjilbangBathhouse plus heated ondol rooms and loungeOften 24hBathing fee plus ₩1,000–3,000; ₩10,000–12,000 to stay overnightSleeping room, snack bar, night surcharge after 8pm in some areas
SaunaDry or wet heat roomsVariesVariesOften attached to a gym
Spa complexResort-scale, sometimes hot spring waterDaytime₩20,000–35,000+Scrub around ₩35,000

The jjimjilbang is younger than most visitors assume. Its ancestor is the 한증막 (hanjeungmak), the Joseon-era sweat lodge built to use residual heat from charcoal and pottery kilns. The modern format appeared in Busan in 1993 and spread fast: about 700 venues nationwide by April 1995, and then out of the country entirely on the back of the Korean wave in the 2000s.

How do you use one?

The sequence is fixed and nobody will explain it to you, so here it is.

Step by step

  • Shoes off at the door, into the shoe locker. Take the key.
  • Pay at the counter, roughly 9,000 to 10,000 won. Exchange the shoe key for a locker key, and buy a towel or a scrub mitt here if you need one. Children under seven pay a reduced rate by law.
  • Undress completely in the changing room. Swimwear is not worn and is not permitted. Bathhouses are single-sex; there is no mixed bathing.
  • Shower before you enter any pool. This is the one rule taken seriously enough that someone may say something. Sit on the stool and wash thoroughly.
  • Then the pools. 온탕 ontang warm, 열탕 yeoltang hot, 냉탕 naengtang cold, sometimes a mugwort pool. Soak until your skin softens, which is the point of what comes next.
  • Scrub, if you want it. Ask at the counter or the scrub table. You lie on a vinyl table and a professional removes a layer of you.
  • Rinse, dry, get dressed, and buy a banana milk or a yoghurt drink on the way out. This is not optional so much as inevitable.
  • No photographs. This is enforced absolutely, in the changing room as much as the bathing area.

Two cultural notes for visitors. Koreans do not wrap a towel around themselves walking between the pools the way Japanese bathers often do; full nudity in the bathing area is the norm and covering up reads as odd rather than modest. And on tattoos, Korea has no legal restriction on entering a bathhouse with them, which surprises visitors who have read about Japanese onsen policy. Individual venues may set their own rules and some gyms and hotel pools do, but a neighbourhood mogyoktang generally will not care.

Is it worth seeking one out?

If what you want is the spa experience with heated floors and sleeping rooms, go to a jjimjilbang; we have a separate guide to how Koreans actually use those.

If what you want is the older thing, look for a low building with a chimney in an ordinary residential district, open in the morning, with a hand-painted sign. The chimney is the tell: a bathhouse boiler needed a flue, and for decades a brick stack with 목욕 written on it was how you found the bath in an unfamiliar neighbourhood. They were the tallest thing on many low-rise streets, and they are coming down.

They are still there. There are fewer every year, and the arithmetic is not ambiguous about where this ends.

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