Living color

By John Sheridan

Given all the change that has taken place in Seoul since the “miracle” economy of the 1980s, whether cafe society, leisure activities or tourism, seeing 350-500cc motorcycles weaving through traffic strikes me the most. All that I recall seeing on the streets in the 80s were 125cc KIA motorbikes, used for delivery service.

Although Japan was exporting its Yamaha motorcycles around the world, nary a one was seen on the streets of Seoul. This was due to South Korea's strict regulations on what could be imported from Japan, a country of “economic animals” as Koreans liked to say, but don't anymore. You might have seen an American on a Harley Davidson in Itaewon, but it was a rare sighting.

Then there's the legend of a Korean guy who put a Harley together from spare parts. Given the Korean can-do spirt back then, it's certainly plausible.

There was the day, circa 2000, when I was trying to hail a taxi and a Korean “biker,” a tough-looking little guy with tattoos, said, “What's up?” as he rode by me on his “chopper.”

I'm sure that he noticed that I was transfixed by everything about him as he approached me on the chopper, acknowledging me with the hip locution in return. Nor had I ever before seen the likes of him on the streets of Seoul. Maybe he was visiting from Koreatown, U.S.A.

As South Korean household income began to increase in the 80s, Koreans, like everyone in prosperous countries before them, began to consume conspicuously.

Perhaps the greatest consumer event in South Korea's economic history occurred when Gold-star (later Lucky Goldstar (LG)) introduced its color television set in 1977, separating everyone into two classes: those with a color TV, and those without one.

While the latter squirreled away their hard-earned money until they, too, could buy a color TV and luxuriate in the world of living color. And no matter how humble one's circumstances, a color TV was a must-have item.

Those Koreans without a color TV had a soulmate in Janis Joplin, who pined for one in her ode to living color: “Oh Lord, won't you buy me a color TV? / Dialing for Dollars is trying to find me / I wait for delivery each day until three / So oh Lord, won't you buy me a color TV?”

I've often thought that the introduction of the Goldstar color television set in South Korea would be a good case study of consumerism at Harvard Business School.

As Seoul's burgeoning middle class consumed conspicuously, its filthy rich spent lavishly on imported luxury goods in Apgujeong-dong, Seoul's Rodeo Drive, while tooling around its streets in foreign sports cars.

I was struck by how decadent Koreans had become when a Hyundai dealership in Buam-dong was replaced by an upscale pet supermarket, offering all the luxury items that one's pampered cat or dog might desire.

While cruising its aisles I got the impression that some cats and dogs live better than some people, with an array of the choicest pet foods, nutritional supplements and hygiene products on its selves.

No Korean wants to be left out of the group, to be an outsider. Rather, they like to belong. This group identity was on display during the summer of 81, when it seemed like every woman over 35, certainly every ajumma, was affecting a Korean perm ― the French Poodle look ― and every beauty salon in Seoul had a long waiting list of those who wanted one.

One article of clothing that piqued my curiosity that summer was a thin cotton jersey, in pastel colors, with COMBINATION BRA AND DICKIE emblazoned on it, which was being sold on the street. I got the BRA part, but I was flummoxed by DICKIE.

I thought that someone got their English mixed up, always possible when Koreans advertised a product in English back then. (And I do recall the Far Eastern Economic Review, now out of circulation, sometimes including examples of funny signs and adverts in Southeast Asia which mangled English.)

Every time I saw the jersey, I thought about DICKIE. Then one day, while I was in the shower, it hit me. A Dickie is a turtleneck without the rest of the sweater, worn to keep one's neck warm in winter. My eldest brother, an avid skier in the 60s, used to wear one.

But it had been so long since I'd heard him use “Dickie,” I'd forgotten its meaning. My guess is that COMBINATION BRA AND DICKIE was an article of clothing for, say, female athletes, something they might wear on the tennis court.

What I miss about the old days is feeling taller. I was 5'10” and weighed 133 pounds (some-thing that 17 months in India can do to you) when I washed up in Seoul in 1981. Nor had the great Korean growth spurt that accompanied a more nutritious diet yet happened; so I felt a bit taller, about six foot, when I was around Koreans. And tall Korean men were usually thin, as well.

With all the tall, beefy young Koreans on the street today, I don't feel so tall anymore. When I mentioned the Korean growth spurt to a diminutive woman who teaches high-school boys, she said, “They're like bears.” Indeed. Should one of these “bears” transfer to an American high school, he'd be introduced to the football coach and issued equipment straightaway.

John Sheridan (sherbo77@yahoo.com) calls himself an “urban flaneur” living in Seoul. The views expressed in the above article are the author's own and do not reflect the editorial direction of The Korea Times.