Dear Family and Friends,

Vietnam is the first country of ten countries on this side of Asia that has coffee – real coffee, not instant. Robust coffee that is brewed in a metal filter, dripped directly on a layer of sweetened condescended milk and accompanied by a bowl of ice. Nirvana in a cup, I say, which is why I returned to the Hoi Anh food market to bargain for a filter and coffee. A few days earlier I had initially kicked off the bargaining process and had bargained the vendor down to 30,000 Dong ($1.50) when I walked away due to a lack of conviction. When I returned to the same vendor’s stand, the lady chuckled with delight, “You!” she said.

“Yes. I am back.” I smiled and pointed to the filter that I planned to purchase. “You said 30,000 Dong for this coffee maker?”

She frowned. “Ok. 30,000 small one.”

“But I don’t want the small one. You said 30,000 for the big one.”

“No small one!”

“Ok. How much for the big one?”

“50.”

“50,000? Really? If I buy this and some coffee, do I get a discount?”

She laughed. “How much coffee you want?”

“Two bags.”

“100,000 Dong.”

“I think that is too much. How about 70?” I wheedled. My experience in Asia has taught me to drive harder bargains but over the last few days, I’d been researching the ethics of tourism and was no longer fussed if a little extra money went to a hard-working Vietnamese lady.

“How about 90?” she returned.

“Ok.” I agreed and pulled out the 90,000 ($4.5) dong.

The vendor looked pleased. “You go home now?”

“No?” I said, puzzled. “Why?”

“See?” She moved to the side of her stall and just beyond the tarp that covered her stand and pointed her index finger at a sky that become covered in clouds and changing into a dark gray.

“Oh. Rain?”

She wrinkled her brow, I concluded that she didn’t know the word, but the vendor nodded anyway.

I tilted my head at the sky one more time and scrunched my nose. “Thank you for saying. And thank you for the coffee. I wish you lots of good luck!”

She waved as I pivoted towards the river. “Good-bye!” she called. I could hear the smile in her voice. I must’ve paid way too much.

As I walked between stalls of pumpkins, heads of garlic, bottles of fish sauce, carrots and marigolds, I noticed that the air felt heavier, more humid than usual. “It is definitely going to storm,” I muttered to myself. I love the drama of storms. Anticipation washed through me. Yet I noted that the tarp above my head had holes in it, as did each subsequent tarp that covered the market. That approaching summer storm was going to pour through those holes, wetting merchandise and hard-working vendors alike. I imagined huddling under the tarp during a storm and didn’t like the feeling one bit.

I emerged from the market and walked along the river. White bolts of lightening cut vertical through dark clouds in the distance. Around me, shops had not closed but the usual tourist crowds and accompanying vendors had vanished. Café owners smiled and followed me with their eyes, as aware that I was crazy not to find shelter. Ahead on the river, three men in a wooden canoe set up lotus lanterns. The man in the back paddled while the other two men crouched and reached to adjust the large pink fabric decorations. Lightening continued to split the horizon but did not appear to approach. There was so much of it that I paused on the grassy river bank, trying to take a picture. A café own jeered from behind me; I failed to capture a bolt.

Then, as if struck by lightening, people around me jolted into action. The men in the canoe paddled for cover under a pedestrian bridge, Vietnamese pedestrians on the bridge began to run. A rain drop splattered against my shoulder. On the ground, rain splashes were larger than quarter coins. Motorcycles picked up speed. Suddenly, thunder cracked. Rain sizzled the surface of the river. I stood to the side of the bridge, savoring the wild of the coming weather and watched the men in the canoe furiously paddle for a Styrofoam cover that had flown into the river. The rain picked up, the man in the front leaned to retrieve the lid, and the man in the back paddled back to shelter as if his life depended on it. Was a piece of Styrofoam worth risking three lives? I wondered.

But even I didn’t have time to wonder. A policeman in a blue uniform watched me from a box-shelter, an Australian man and woman with matching salt and pepper hair speed-walked into a café. It began to rain harder. I decided to walk to the tailor shop that I had come to town to visit. I walked to the shop, avoiding spray from motorcycle riders who had donned plastic rain ponchos that fitted against their chest and puffed out behind them. Thunder cracked. A vendor thumped wooden window slats closed.

When I reached the shop, no one was near the front door. I walked into the back of the shop. There were no customers and the group of helpful ladies, dressed in uniform close-fitted kelly green tunics and matching pants clustered around the table usually reserved for customers. I greeted them, “Sing caio!”

Instead of an answer from the ladies, thunder shook the air. Each lady cried softly and ducked. They were afraid of the storm; I was exhilarated. The lady who had earlier asked me to call her Miriam stood. “You want your clothes?”

“Yes. Please?” 

“Ok.” She turned and led me to the back. Thunder rumbled. The shop ladies tittered. Mariam’s body stiffened as she lead me into the back of the shop.  

In the back, Mariam caught up a red woolen jacket and held it by the sleeves so that I could try it on. It fit as if it were custom-made. Which, indeed it was. Perhaps it is the collision of low-cost labor and gorgeous silk but custom tailoring has swelled into big business in Hoi Anh. The old village’s streets are lined with clothing shops where a customer may wander in, select a clothing item, ask “how much?” and be given both a price plus a time that the piece will be custom finished for you. During our introductory walk through the village, one of our tour guides had walked us to AoBaBa, a “quality” shop that he recommended and one of the shop ladies handed us each a shop business card.

Not that I initially planned to have anything custom tailored for me. A few years ago, one of my dear friends went to Vietnam, ordered some custom clothing and shipped it back to Korea, where we both lived (and desperately desired non-Korean clothing.) Each piece that she received was gorgeous. And yet, a few years later, when it came my turn to visit Vietnam, I brushed aside the notion of buying clothing. Until I spotted the jacket. Made of wool, with a unique collar and closed with black frogs, I fell in instant love. However, before returning to the shop that our guide recommended, I visited a few other stores and found that the jacket was priced at $40. Cheaper than Old Navy on a good sale day? I had to buy it. So during a period free of writing obligation, I returned to the shop pointed to the jacket, asked how much, was satisfied with the price, and asked the lady helping me, Miriam, if they could make the jacket for me.

“What color?” she asked as she handed me a bundle of 25 wools to choose from. I dithered between navy blue and red. Mariam smiled and patiently waited. I chose red.

Next, she pulled out a measuring tape. “Extend your hands,” she ordered. She measured around my chest. “Drop your hands.”  She measured from wrist to shoulder, around my neck, from boob to boob (!), around my waist, writing each measurement on a form in pencil.

“Ok.” She finally said. “You pay half now. Come back tomorrow.” I did return the next day, along with another seven or eight people in my group. Many of the women in my group were excited at custom tailoring and had ordered piles dresses, silk robes, blouses, skirts, and fitted suits.

“Has business been good?” I asked while waiting.

“No. But your group make very busy.” A lady who wore a name tag named Barbara told me.

“Is it good when you are busy?” I asked, looking at our collective mound of half-finished clothing, and imagining that it was keeping the tailors from sleeping.

“Yes.”

I asked, “Because you are bored?” 

“Yes. But we sell more clothing, we get more money. No sales, less money. Busy is good for us. And for you.”

I agreed just as Mariam called me to try on my jacket. “You ordered a wool coat in this heat? That’s crazy!” one of my travel companions exclaimed. But as I slipped my arms into the jacket’s sleeves, which turned out to be too short, I smiled. I will be glad to wear it in the fall with dark jeans and my red shoes. When we finished with the first fitting, Mariam told me, “You can come at 4 tomorrow.”

At 4 the next day, thunder shook the building as I attempted to slide my perfectly fit jacket off my arms. But the silk lining had become glued to my rain-spattered arms and Mariam had to help me remove the jacket. She laughed. Thunder boomed again. She stopped laughing. I paid with my Visa debit card.

“You can stay here until after storm,” Mariam told me. I thanked her and asked if I may stand at the window of the shop. Her eyes called me crazy but she nodded. I walked to the front of the shop, put down my bag, folded my arms against the waist-high wooden sill and looked out at the street. The thunder and lightening had calmed a bit but rain splattered and rattled against the pavement. Motorcycle riders rode from right to left, each in a bright yellow or blue-snow-flake patterned or a white VietBank or pink plastic poncho. Bicycle riders also rode from my right to left. Rain continued, street drains were becoming clogged and water puddled on the sides of each sidewalk. Motorcycle riders in the same ponchos began to pass the shop from left to right, each with a child behind him. Mariam came to stand next to me.

“Is school finished now?” I asked over the din.

She answered, “Yes. Moms go to school to get kids.”

“Even in the rain?”

“Yes.” She said.

We stood for ten minutes and just watched the street. The rain didn’t let up, nor did the sound of pounding. Already the air smelled as if it had been washed clean. On the second stories of the building across the street, a man opened the shutter partway, looked and shut the shutter again. In the shop below him, another man used a small straw broom to sweep water and dead leaves into the street. In the shop to the right of the man sweeping, a woman opened a window hung with ladies purses, put on a clear poncho, and pulled a bicycle with a basket out onto the sidewalk. She got onto the bicycle and rode down the street, to the right. Minutes passed. More motorbikes, bicycles and ponchos passed. Without cell phones or books or television or computers, the ladies in the shop were quiet. Mariam was quiet. I was quiet. The man across the street peeked and left his window ajar and did not move. The lady vendor across the street rode from the left to the right, with her son on his own bicycle with a clear plastic poncho behind her. Both lifted their bicycles into the shop. I imagined that they went upstairs for an after school snack.

When the rain lessened, I thanked Mariam with a bow and a hand across my heart and walked into the street. My flip-flops flapped water up my legs and I tossed my hair and titled my forehead to the sky. A few people in ponchos and umbrellas began leaving the shops while an old man used a long wooden stick to dislodge the drain.

The storm was finished. My jacket was finished. We would be leaving Hoi Anh on the morrow. With coffee in my bag and exhilaration in my heart, I returned to my hotel.

Laura

"Canoes" on the river in Hoi Anh. 

Men paddling away from setting up lotus flower decorations

before a thunderstorm in Hoi Ahn.