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First Encounter with Coca-cola
by Therese Park
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Coca-cola was introduced to our family in July, 1951, during the Korean
War. It was a gift from two American soldiers, total strangers we met at
the
beach. In spite of their kindness, we didn't fall in love with the American
drink. In fact, I still don't touch it, although I am an American citizen
now.
Earlier that July, truce-talks between the UN Delegates and Chinese Communists-leaders
began, and some anxious refugees were leaving our town of Pusan, eager to
find out the fate of their homes or their lost families. But for those
of us who lived in Pusan, it was time to enjoy life again.
One Sunday afternoon we were among the Korean families enjoying the cool
ocean breeze on a sandy beach, glad that it was opened to the public again.
While
intense fighting had been going on since a year earlier, beaches were closed
for security reasons.
But the signs of war were everywhere. Near us, behind a chain-link fence,
army tents were flapping in the wind and dozens of American soldiers were
enjoying a day at the beach too--some swimming, some playing volleyball,
and some sunbathing. Overhead, American planes were flying north, their
wings glittering in the bright sunlight. Faraway, near the horizon, the
American battleships floated, their red-white-blue flags dancing in the
air.
While we ate lunch, we had unexpected visitors. Two American soldiers,
each with a six-pack of Coca-cola bottles, came and greeted our father
in English.
Father was baffled. "Are they trying to sell the
drink?" he asked my eldest brother, a high school student, who was learning
English at school.
"No," my brother answered. "They're giving it to us for free," he
said.
Father smiled. Taking the six packs from the soldiers, he said "Tank-yu!" the
only English-words he knew.
The Americans babbled something more, and my brother interpreted that they
wanted us to enjoy the drink. They left, waving and smiling.
My brother opened a bottle. Brown bubbles crawled up.
Father looked worried. "Is it safe to drink?"
"Of course it is," my brother said. "Americans drink it all the
time."
Father leaned forward to smell the brown bubbles but straightened his back
immediately. "Something pricks my nose. I don't think we should drink
it."
My brother laughed. "It's from America, Father. Why don't you try it?
I promise it won't kill you."
Father shook his head. "I don't want to."
"Mother, do you want to?" my brother asked.
She wasn't eager to try it, either. "Why don't you go first?" she
said.
My brother lifted the bottle to his mouth with a certain air of pride and
began drinking it. I watched him with envy. I had seen Coca-cola posters
on the streets. The people in the poster were always smiling, ear-to-ear,
the bottle in their hands, making me curious about the drink. In our
family, we never drank anything but Barley Tea, hot or cold. Buying cold
drinks from street vendors was prohibited. According to Mother, vendors
never boiled water before they sweetened and colored it.
Something went wrong between my brother and coca-cola. My brother began
to spit up the brown, bubbly liquid, hiccupping, while the liquid dribbled
from his mouth and nose. What's happening, I wondered.
Mother panicked. "Are you all right? You look sick," she said. But
my brother seemed too miserable to say anything. He only hiccupped, blinking
his watery eyes.
Father poured Barley Tea into a teacup, and handed it to him. "Drink it," he
ordered. "Didn't I say we shouldn't drink that stuff?"
Wiping his mouth and grinning awkwardly, my brother said, "It's pretty
good, really! It pricked my throat like hell, but I'll drink it again."
June 6 , 2006