What do you do after booking a flight?
Depends on who you ask. The answer might range anywhere from “make a list of things to pack” to just “Chill”. Live long enough in Seoul and you’ll start sleuthing out a person’s MBTI based on their response. Seoulites are dead serious about the Meyers-Briggs Type Indicator personality test. If you’re anything like me though you’ll probably turn to Uncle Google and solicit his advice on “where to visit in ______”. Now you know the last letter of my MBTI (challenge: try guessing all four in the comments).
After booking my first ever flight to Tokyo, I—being a “J” fated for relentless organization—began to look up the top ten places that you must check out while visiting the city. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that Shibuya tops the list. The first five sites were all insisting that Shibuya “Scramble” Crossing is THE iconic landmark that I would be sorry to miss.
This got me thinking: where is the “Shibuya” of Seoul? I mulled over this question while halting midway across the famed crosswalk, iPhone held high, somewhat oblivious to how absurd I probably looked and very much aware that I was mimicking the behavior of at least twenty other foreign tourists there.
After a few rounds of indulgent scrambling, I came to the conclusion that Seoul doesn’t really have a Shibuya; there isn’t a particular crosswalk that attracts new crowds through its history of crowds (protests not included). However, if we shift the focus from traffic density to a space’s landmark qualities, it makes a lot of sense to say that Gwanghwamun (광화문) is the iconic counterpart of Shibuya.
Therefore, as you might have predicted, today’s post explores what makes Seoul and Tokyo’s most popular streets so “iconic”.
Street escapism
Two things I noticed while standing across from purportedly one of the world’s most busiest Starbucks is that Shibuya Scramble is a) smaller than expected and b) is ensconced by shops all around. All four ends of the intersection are framed by buildings that tower over the world famous crosswalk. This results in something that I’ve coined the “snow globe effect”.
Once the pedestrian light turns green, people surge out onto the street like specks of glitter that cascade down the sides of a snow globe that’s been freshly shaken.
Time slows as you walk into the crowds that scramble forward from across the street.
Time suspends when you start to process that you are visible but not seen.
Streams of people glide past you, so close yet so distant. You are in the middle of a glassless snow globe, swathed in a storm of scintillating lives that fly towards each other before parting ways forever. This moment is magical.
You are in the middle of a glassless snow globe, swathed in a storm of scintillating lives that fly towards each other before parting ways forever.
To return to my earlier observation about how Shibuya Scramble is actually smaller than how it’s depicted by media—this statement by no means implies disappointment btw—the crosswalk is surrounded by a circle of buildings that are all close-set. Compared to Seoul, the width of Tokyo’s streets are generally much narrower. Shibuya is no exception. Such proximity between the buildings lends an artificial intimacy to the landscape and produces the impression that Shibuya is compressed; buildings appear more magnified in size and walking in between them feels like treading through a miniature world where reality is transposed into cartoonish proportions. Instead of a glass dome, the buildings positioned at each corner of the crosswalk enclose and demarcate the borders of this snow globe world. As such, walking into the middle of the crosswalk is akin to stepping inside a snow globe that is re-shaken every 45 seconds.
If Shibuya Scramble is a step into a life-size snow globe, Gwanghwamun Square (광화문 거리) is an escape into a timeless gallery.
Spanning nearly ten road lanes in width, Gwanghwamun Square leads up to Gyeongbokgung (경복궁), the largest of the five royal palaces in Seoul, and is at the center of a diplomatic hotspot; at least six different embassies, including the U.S. embassy and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, straddle it on both sides. Traffic runs like a river in between the square and palace—a manifestation of Seoul’s vibrant pulse and a reminder of how Gwanghwamun is very much embedded in the midst of Seoul’s urban fabric.
Despite being encircled by modern elements, Gwanghwamun Square is not simply a product of 21st century architecture. The area looks out onto a traditional landscape that unfolds from behind Gwanghwamun (the main gate that guards Gyeonbokgung), resulting in a juxtaposition of old and new. Even within the square there are statues commemorating heroic figures who definitively shaped Korean history (e.g. King Sejong aka the king who created the Korean alphabet, admiral Yi Sun-sin aka turtle battleship legend). It goes without saying that both statues are popular tourist photo zones—bonus points if you can somehow fit the 17 meter statue AND Gwanghwamun in one photo.
Spacious in design, Gwanghwamun Square invites people to slow down their pace once they step afoot onto the area. Unlike Shibuya Scramble, it’s not common to find anyone scurrying across the square; albeit you might catch a few locals striding quickly towards one of the nearby bus stops or Gyeongbokgung station (I’m guilty of this). Overall, the square gives off a laidback energy that runs parallel to the surrounding urban chaos. Tourists and locals alike stroll through the area at a tempo that cuts through the city’s presto refrain. The only reminders of time are the pedestrian lights placed near the crosswalks leading out of the square. There is nothing to rush you here.
The square’s indifference towards time casts a poetic effect on Gwanghwamun. The dancheong (단청) clad gate looms over the square, flanked on both sides by haechi—stone lions with cauliflower bangs, charged with guarding the royal palace. Usually, a landmark the size and gravity of Gwanghwamun evokes a self-minimizing awe in viewers. People are belittled by the sublime composition. And it’s quite true that palaces, cathedrals, parliament buildings, etc. are built with this effect in mind. However, Gwanghwamun, due to where it is usually observed, doesn’t come across as being outright intimidating (not anymore at least). Rather, the gate presents itself as a liminal art piece situated at the threshold of traditional and modernity, offering solace to those who gaze up at it—almost like the moon that appears night after night against an endless stretch of darkness. The gate is at the front of the palace, always facing the viewer who approaches it from across the square. Those in presence of it have all the time in the world to engage in a silent dialogue with the eight hundred year old monument.
Gwanghwamun Square is a timeless gallery open to all.
Those in front of the gate have all the time in the world to engage in a silent dialogue with the eight hundred year old monument
Iconic’s two axes
To revisit our initial question: what makes a space iconic?
An in-depth examination of Shibuya Scramble and Gwanghwamun Square reveals that the cadence of experiencing a new space is just as important as its spatial composition. Shibuya Scramble whisks visitors off into a snow-globe world where recognition of one’s anonymity results in a slo-mo celebration of liberation. On the other hand, Gwanghwamun Square welcomes guests into a timeless gallery where the mandates of time have no power in front of the royal gate.
Despite delivering dissimilar experiences, both Shibuya Scramble and Gwanghwamun Square have one trait in common. They transport the visitor into a new dimension of reality, ephemeral though it may be. How often do you revel in physical anonymity or engage in private dialogue within a public space? It is precisely this disruptive quality that differentiates an iconic space from one that is not.
Iconic spaces, people, products—brands—are memorable because they disrupt the ways in which we register the world, forcing us to adapt new angles of “seeing” previously unconsidered.
What’s an iconic space that shifted your perception of what’s normal?