Window-shopping, published in The Korea Times Sept. 28, 1988. Korea Times Archive

When I discovered I'd be heading to Korea to teach in October 1990, it felt like stepping into uncharted territory. This was long before Lonely Planet's guidebooks and the internet made information readily available, so reliable details were scarce. Out of necessity, I contacted the Korea National Tourism Office in Chicago, and a thick envelope arrived a few weeks later. Its glossy brochures still resonated with the energy of the 1988 Olympics, showcasing Seoul's grand palaces, picturesque countryside and bustling shopping districts.

One tourist area, in particular, caught my attention: Itaewon. The photos depicted crowded sidewalks filled with shoppers, lined with vendors, shops, eateries and the familiar glow of American fast food signs — lively, exotic and yet comfortingly recognizable. Though I'd never walked those streets, Itaewon's distinctly international vibe promised new experiences with some welcome reminders of home.

One Sunday afternoon, just a week before Christmas, my colleague Ken — who'd taken me under his wing since my arrival — decided it was time I saw Itaewon for myself. "I'll even introduce you to my tailor," he said, beaming with pride. "He'll fix you up with a suit. It'll only set you back a hundred bucks."

"Cool," I replied.

The idea of a custom-made suit sounded too good to pass up. I could already hear ZZ Top's "Sharp Dressed Man" in my head.

A map of Itaewon, published in The Korea Times Dec. 5, 1997. Korea Times Archive

Catching a taxi toward this fabled district, I soon discovered Itaewon was nothing like the photos. It was an experience. The atmosphere was electric, a surreal mix of Korean tradition and Americana. The late afternoon sky hung low and wintry, and the sidewalks were a riot of lights and noise. Vendors shouted from makeshift stalls piled high with socks, gloves, knockoff Nikes and designer handbags. Above carts laden with goods, bulbs dangled on wires blinking in the gathering dusk. The atmosphere crackled — part carnival, part international bazaar. Many of the foreigners were GIs who'd wandered over from the nearby U.S. Army Garrison Yongsan. Every step brought another chorus of vendors calling out: "You buy suit? You buy handbag?" Their eager voices blended with an indefinable energy that filled the air.

"Well? Thoughts?" Ken asked as we walked down the sidewalk.

"It's…wild," I said, my senses overwhelmed.

An understatement, really. It was the kind of place that sunk its hooks into you before you even realized it.

He laughed. "I had that same shell-shocked look on my first visit — somewhere between a kid at the circus and an alien on a new planet."

I laughed as we passed a store offering Korean souvenirs. "Don't worry, I come in peace."

Foreign and Korean women sort through clothes for sale in front of stores including a Wendy's in Itaewon, published in The Korea Times Nov. 9, 1993. Korea Times Archive

Despite Itaewon's grit, there was undeniable flair. The buildings were cloaked in soot and drab tiles, but plastered with neon signs in both Korean and English, jostling for attention. One moment, you'd pass the familiar golden arches of McDonald's — a comforting reminder of home — and the next, a tailor shop claiming to have dressed ambassadors, Olympic athletes and even Hollywood celebrities. Ken led me straight to Paris Tailor, just down the street from the Hamilton Hotel, and before I knew it, I was getting measured for my own suit. Joining the shop's impressive client list felt like a quirky rite of passage in my new life abroad.

To placate my mother, who was less than thrilled about me moving overseas yet again, I decided to shop for a gift. On the second floor of the Hamilton Hotel, tucked away in a small arcade, I found a black lacquer mother-of-pearl jewelry box. The merchant assured me they could ship it anywhere in the world; true to their word, my mother received it within a week. Just like that, Itaewon had already delivered.

Nashville, a sports pub, is on the second floor of the main street through Itaewon, next to Seoul Pub, in this 2002 photo. Courtesy of Jeffrey Miller

Across the street, we ducked into Nashville Club, known for its steaks, burgers and chili cheeseburgers that were to die for. The place was owned by Skip Tuttle, a U.S. Navy veteran, and his Korean wife.

Partway through the evening, the Korean waitstaff paused, set down their trays and broke into a full-on Texas two-step right between the tables.

"Am I seeing things?" I asked, torn between gawking and ordering my food.

Ken snorted. "Welcome to the Nashville. Grab a rib-eye steak and watch a country line dance — no extra charge."

"As long as they don't rope me in before I finish my burger," I remarked.

Lee Ok-hui, left, and Skip Tuttle of the Nashville Club in Itaewon, published in The Korea Times May 16, 2005.

But not all was carefree. A sign on the door forbade male Koreans from entering — a reflection of the simmering tensions between local men and U.S. servicemembers, and a barrier meant to keep a night of revelry from devolving into something darker.

Despite the heavy U.S. military imprint, Itaewon's global flavor ran deeper. Behind the Hamilton Hotel was Ashoka, a traditional Indian restaurant, and down the main drag was Old Germany — but those culinary adventures would have to wait.

Then there was the seamier side, which I also encountered on that first night out. We found ourselves at a bar called The Twilight Zone, perched atop a building overlooking the infamous "Hooker Hill." Inside, cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, illuminated by the flickering glow of neon signs from outside. Vanilla Ice's "Ice Ice Baby" boomed from the sound system. GIs and other foreigners — many arm-in-arm with their Korean dates — nursed mugs sloshing with "Jungle Juice," a teeth-aching concoction rumored to peel paint. Over the bassline, fragments of halting Korean and easy English drifted by, colliding in bursts of laughter that ricocheted off the walls.

Itaewon's "Hooker Hill" in 2002 / Courtesy of Jeffrey Miller

From our perch high above the winding streets, we looked down on a narrow side lane awash in neon glow. Bars with names like Rocky Top, the Grand Ole Opry and Dallas clung to the slope, their awkward Western façades jarring against the urban sprawl. Watching GIs totter uphill sparked a flicker of déjà vu, transporting me back to my early days in the Air Force — strolling along J Street in Panama City, just across the way from the Panama Canal Zone.

Just a short climb away, King Club blazed like a beacon, its neon sign throbbing against the icy backdrop. A steady stream of GIs and their dates funneled inside, drawn by booming bass that trickled down the street like an irresistible Pied Piper. With every reverberation, the entire district seemed to sway along, bonded by a shared, unspoken rhythm.

Later, as Ken and I wound our way up that steep road after leaving The Twilight Zone, the district throbbed with its own heartbeat. Hostesses beckoned customers with sweet talk of drinks and darker temptations. Amid the crisp December air, Hooker Hill emerged like a raw nerve — unapologetically showcasing the city's underbelly, a legacy of its camptown origins and sustained by bars that cater to nearby military personnel.

One bar spilled The Eagles' "Hotel California" into the night — "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave…" — while just across the way, Sinead O'Connor's "Nothing Compares 2 U" floated gently on the chilled air. Even now, those songs catapult me back to that first encounter when Itaewon's diamond-in-the-rough allure pulled me deeper with every step, refusing — ever so tantalizingly — to let me go.

Hooker Hill in the daytime in 2018 / Courtesy of Jeffrey Miller

At the top of the hill, Ken and I paused to take in the steady flow of GIs making their way up and down, passing by the lively, small bars that hugged the narrow lane below. Somewhere in the night, the Beastie Boys' rebellious anthem echoed, singing about fighting for your right to party, adding a nostalgic soundtrack to the evening.

"Well, now you've seen Itaewon up close and personal. What do you think?" Ken asked, a playful grin spreading across his face.

"Pretty surreal, man," I replied, my eyes wide as I took in the kaleidoscope of neon lights and the bustling crowd below.

"Yeah, trippy," he replied.

A woman works at a restaurant stall in Itaewon's Fish Alley in 2002. Courtesy of Jeffrey Miller

Before we left that night, Ken and I ventured down to Fish Alley, a bustling side street just a short walk from Hooker Hill. We paused at a modest food stand nestled among the vibrant array of vendors, where the aroma of spices and simmering broth filled the air.

We settled on bowls of steaming cheese ramyeon, the rich, savory aroma enveloping us with promises of warmth and comfort. As we eagerly slurped the hot, flavorful noodles, the zesty, spicy broth and perfectly tender strands provided a soothing balm to the evening's frenetic energy. The uncomplicated joy of sharing this simple, hearty meal in such a bustling setting created a serene oasis amidst the vibrant, pulsating backdrop of Itaewon's nightlife.

Over time, Itaewon has experienced waves of gentrification, replacing aging storefronts with sleek cafes, upscale bars and international eateries, replacing the district's once-gritty charm with modern sophistication. The district was no longer just a haven for the military or the local expat community. Instead, it began attracting an influx of tourists from Japan, China, Russia and beyond, alongside a growing number of local residents.

A storefront remains vacant in Itaewon's Hooker Hill in 2018. The building is still standing in the same condition in 2025. Courtesy of Jeffrey Miller

However, this evolution extended beyond mere aesthetics; it was driven by a profound shift in the neighborhood's fabric. Foreign workers from Southeast and Central Asia became pivotal to Korea's economic ascent, and their influence was unmistakable in Itaewon's cultural landscape. Despite the polished new facades, Itaewon retained its hallmark diversity — a vibrant, multicultural mosaic nestled in the heart of the Korean capital, a living testament to Seoul's evolving identity, where tradition and modernity coexist in a vibrant, ever-changing dance.

But Itaewon's global allure came with heartbreak, too. On Oct. 29, 2022, during the first large-scale Halloween festivities since easing COVID-19 pandemic restrictions, a crowd crush occurred in the narrow alleyways, taking the lives of 159 people — both Koreans and foreigners. This event shook the district to its core. Itaewon, long synonymous with nightlife and cross-cultural exchange, found itself reeling. Memorials sprang up, and the global spotlight fell on the dangers of unchecked crowds in Seoul's most famous nightlife district. Even now, the tragedy hangs over the neighborhood like a solemn reminder of how quickly revelry can turn to disaster.

Looking back on that first night in Itaewon — wandering along the main drag, stumbling upon hole-in-the-wall bars and getting measured for my very first custom-tailored suit — it's hard to imagine how much the district has changed and how much it has stayed the same. It remains a kaleidoscope of cultures, a place simultaneously welcoming and rough around the edges, where new arrivals and seasoned expats mix with locals in the shadow of a history that stretches back to its camptown origins. Itaewon drew me in with its intensity, and like so many others, I find I'll never truly leave it behind. After all, once Itaewon has you in its grasp, you can check out any time — but a part of you never leaves.

Jeffrey Miller is the author of several novels including "War Remains," a story about the early days of the Korean War, and "No Way Out," a thriller set in Seoul in 1990.