don't knock it till you try it: custom-made clothing in Hoi An

I recently returned from a trip to Vietnam. And while there were plenty of more "intense" things that I tried before knocking while I was there, I've decided to write my first entry about something relatively innocuous--the touristy activity of getting custom-made clothing in the town of Hoi An.

Before leaving on my trip, one of my friends expressed feelings of envy--she'd been dreaming of traveling to Vietnam for years, and she really wanted to get made-to-measure clothing in Hoi An.

Of course I had no idea what she was talking about, since true to form, I had barely researched the trip, preferring instead to learn about my destination from the guidebook in the hours before landing in a new place. For me, a trip never seems real until I'm in the air/on the road/whatever. Why bother researching a place and getting all excited just to have my hopes dashed when I never actually get there? This attitude seems to stem from years of travel-frustration and is obviously self-defeating, but I still have trouble reading the necessary travel books.

Eventually I wised up and started researching the trip, even setting up a meeting with my friend Kelly who traveled extensively in Vietnam a few years ago. Kelly drew me a map, told me about some of the better destinations and explained the correct pronunciation of "thank you" in Vietnamese (nothing like what I'd been "learning" from the Pimmsleur language CDs).

We talked about many things Vietnamese, including the custom-made clothing in Hoi An. I asked her if it was worthy of all the hype. Kelly gave me a "this is between you and me" kind of look. "It's crap," she said. But she admitted that the process of getting something made "just for you" is kind of fun--just that I shouldn't be expecting, like, couture on the cheap.

When we arrived in Hoi An, I was a little on the fence about the clothing. I figured I would eventually cave in to the very persistent tailor shop workers and get a dress made "for fun," but I wasn't obsessed with the idea.

Hoi An is a pretty little town, but the adorableness is somewhat tempered by the overwhelming, everywhere-ness of the tailoring scene. "Cloth shops" are crammed in next to each other all over the place, with the occasional restaurant or historic building breaking up the steady flow. Meanwhile, shop employees go to great lengths to lure you into their storefronts.

For example, on our second day in Hoi An Nick and I were accosted by a young woman on a bicycle moments after we left our hotel. Naturally, she wanted us to come with her to her shop to get some clothing made. Like a dutiful tourist, I had read my guidebook which warned the reader about various scams involving young ladies on bicycles luring you into shops, but I kept my mouth shut. Nick hates it when I demonstrate my cautious, sensible, even-keeled midwestern qualities--like when I refused to exchange my money with the old lady in the airport who promised us a better exchange rate if we'd simply "go over there" to a discreet corner with her.

So there we were in the "Lucky Number Cloth Shop", both of us getting measured for clothing we didn't really want. I gave up and asked for a simple cotton halter dress; Nick got a shirt. The girl who lured us in thanked us profusely for coming with her, and assured me that all her seams are double-stitched, everything is really good quality, etc. etc. Her shop is much better and cheaper than the shops affiliated with hotels--they get commissions! And so on.

After that, we submitted to the force of the tailoring pressure and decided to "test the waters" with two more shops. Next we went to Phuoc An--the shop associated with our hotel, getting all those sneaky commissions! But we had to go, because I really wanted to go back home and say that I got my dress at Phuoc An Tailor (F#$% Ann Taylor).

I paged through several books of photos, searching for a dress. Although it seems like it should be fun to look through a bunch of fashion magazines and then point to something and demand, "Make this for me!", for someone as indecisive as me, it was stressful. Eventually I settled on something relatively simple (sleeveless, v-neck, fitted waist), picked out a fabric and got out of there.

By the time we got to our final destination, Dong Phuong, I was getting fatigued. I took the boring, easy way out, finding a picture of a dress that looked suspiciously like one I already own and asking for it in red. And that was it for day one of custom-made clothing.

The next day we had to head back to all three shops, making the rounds to check out our new clothes. We started at Lucky Number. I tried on my dress--it fit, I guess, but it didn't look very good. Actually, it might have looked a little stupid. I checked the seams--they were not double-stitched, as the proprietress had promised--sure to fall apart after wearing for more than a couple hours.

Now, one of the "benefits" of this whole process is that the customer has the right to send a garment back for alterations. I could have pointed out the shoddy craftsmanship and the stupid cut of the dress and demanded to have it fixed. But I didn't want to deal with it, so I just accepted it as it was. Nick's shirt was pretty bad, too, but like me, he didn't have the energy to make an issue of it.

Then is was on to Dong Phuong. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the dress they made was good! It was a little too big, but the girls in the shop immediately set about to pinning it up to alter it. A couple hours later the dress returned, fitting perfectly. It was so great that I ordered another one! And Nick spontaneously ordered a suit (and he hates suits), which they somehow assembled in six hours. It turned out great, too.

Finally we went to Phuoc An to pick up the last of the stuff. The fabric of the dress was what I'd chosen, but everything else was different. The dress the salesgirl presented was a billowing thing with a scooped neck and an empire waist--way different from the sleek, simple thing in the picture. I tried to explain this to my sales girl. She smiled and shook her head, indicating that I did not want the dress that I had asked for. I tried to explain that I did. Then she patted me on the stomach, saying, "No, no! You not show this..." and then I realized that she had given me the tent dress for my own good--so that no one would have to be subjected to my giant, American gut.

Verdict: The shopping thing can be stressful if you aren't type A and you don't know what you want. It can also cause western traveler guilt when you walk down side streets and alleys at night and see all the little sweatshops cranking out designer knock-offs for plus-sized white tourists. And very thin Vietnamese women might mock your American heftiness, which could damage your self-esteem. But if you visit this town and want to take part, I would recommend Dong Phuong! But not the other two places.

Don't knock it till you try it: Lesley Gore live

Monday was my first day back from Vietnam, and in my jet-lagged state I saw in the Star Tribune that Lesley Gore, one of my favorite "girl group" singers, was performing that night at the Dakota in downtown Minneapolis.

I was exhausted and didn't really want to do anything except go home, drink wine and eat nachos, but the rational part of my brain told me I'd be disappointed in myself if I didn't drive straight to the venue after work to secure a $40 ticket to this show of the decade. Lesley Gore songs were an important part of my early music education. When I was about eight years old, my parents bought me a Fisher Price turntable which they installed in our cold, damp basement in south Minneapolis.

Without an older sibling to guide my musical choices, I relied on my dad. Every now and then he'd take me to Great American Music in Bloomington to purchase 45s. Some of the songs that I remember from this era (my "only child in the basement" era) are "Wishin' and Hopin'", "Runaround Sue" and of course, "It's My Party" and "Judy's Turn to Cry."

This early indoctrination instilled a deep appreciation of all that 60s girl group stuff. In my advanced age I now find "It's My Party" to be kind of annoying, but I truly love "Maybe I Know" ("Maybe I know that he's been a-cheatin'/Maybe I know that he's been untrue/But what can I do???") Indeed--I mean really, what can you do? 

Anyway, so I like Lesley Gore, and I rushed down to the Dakota promptly at 5:30 when the box office opened. I'd never been there before (has anyone?), so I didn't know that's it's basically a restaurant and if you buy a single ticket they're going to match you up with another single person with whom you will have to make stilted conversation for what seems like hours. No one stands around like they do at normal rock shows, so there's no escape.

I approached my seat at the two-person cocktail party feeling like a clumsy call girl. My "date" was a gentleman who seemed to be about my dad's age, or older (mid-60s). I was by far the youngest person in the place, and "Ed" pointed this out. "You're too young to remember Lesley Gore," he said. I explained the thing with my dad and the 45s. "Oh," he said. We were off to a great start.

As a personal challenge (I'm socially retarded), I attempted to make conversation about music. He was polite, but not super talkative, and I noticed that he didn't waste much time making reference to his "girlfriend." This made me paranoid. "Does he think I'm hitting on him?" I wondered. Everyone knows that girls only reference "the boyfriend" when they're trying to rebuff the advances of some pushy dude.

Maybe I was reading into it too much. Luckily, Lesley came on soon, and I was relieved of my small talk duties.

Lesley kicked off the night with a song I'd never heard--probably one of her more recent songs that could only be described as "adult contemporary." I started to feel grateful that I hadn't pressured any of my friends to come with me. (This feeling was confirmed later when she performed a "jazzy" version of that Bryan Adams song "Everything I Do...I Do it For You.")

But this is starting to sound catty. Lesley was actually really good! But there is something a little off-putting about seeing someone who looks like your mom's stylish-but-practical best friend belting out teenager pop hits from the 60s. "Maybe I should have stayed home and watched this stuff on youtube..." I started to think. But then again, what was I expecting? 

The audience loved it, however. White women in the sixties "shimmied" self-consciously in their chairs. Older men in button downs and sweaters folder their arms across their chests, occasionally tapping a foot. All in all, it was much like the scene at an indie rock show, but older.

One funny thing happened--during "It's My Party" Lesley went out in the audience to accost a particularly jubilant table of 50-something women. When the chorus came around, she shoved the microphone into the face of one of the women. (I hate it when performers do this; it's so embarrassing! But I guess it only happens when you're at a Monkees reunion show or something.) Anyway, the woman couldn't sing at all. "Well, you look good, but you sure can't sing!" said Lesley. 

After the show, I saw the bad singer in the bathroom. "Oh, you're the singer," said one of the other women in line. There was an uncomfortable pause. "Yeah," said the bad singer. "Lesley said I had a bad voice. But she apologized later and said she didn't mean it."