Shopping

I miserably crawled awake at 3:00AM. I had always taken myself to be a great sleeper and never thought I'd have trouble with it, being as how it's one of my favorite things to do, but I guess I'm also a creature of habit who couldn't stay in bed past 12:00 noon in California. We had our usual breakfast of fruits and spent the day shopping. Bac Si Xuan, a close friend of Tung's family, is a retired doctor who now spends her days doing community service at local hospitals, taking care of ill Catholic priests. We eventually took to calling her Co ("Aunt") Xuan, as if she were family. She was very happy to hear that we were in town and took time from her especially busy schedule around Christmas to take us to Cho Ben Thanh, a famous marketplace in Saigon that existed when I was born and still thrives to this day, since so much of the Vietnamese economy relies on retail.

Ben Thanh has changed a lot since my youth. There are still 4 entrances: North, South, East, and West (the photo above shows the North entrance). In the past, it was comparable to An Dong Marketplace with its cramped stalls, narrow walkways, and pushy salespeople, but today's Ben Thanh caters to tourists and specifically sports signs prohibiting bargaining. Deep in its core, there are still those cramped stalls and merchants who would pull on your arm to get your attention, but the shops skirting the outer circumference of the market has a less chaotic ambience.

The stalls looked neater and were well laid out, and the salespeople were generally helpful and less pushy. While I'm sure my parents, who have been in retail all their lives, would prefer the bargaining leverage of An Dong, I must confess that I was much more comfortable with Ben Thanhs' culture.

After a brief walk around, Tung's family settled on a cloth merchant's stall and spent at least 3 hours there, choosing fabric for suits, pants, skirts, jackets, and casual wear--button-up shirts (called "ao so-mi") made from "vai ca-te," a thin, cool, moisture-wicking fabric popular in Viet Nam's balmy weather.

A lot of merchants sold pre-cut "ao dai" fabric in countless designs and styles, and I had so much fun picking out one (and eventually, two) for myself. Customers run their hands through the fabric, select a color, and choose a design, whereupon the salespeople take it off the hangers and hold it up to the customer's bodies so they can get a sense of how the design and color would look on them. They tirelessly repeat this cycle and even indulge window shoppers with this type of service in hopes of making a sale. Here I am, comparing fabric quality and design with Co Xuan, the woman in the lower-right.

I then took a break from shopping, with a coconut that was "on the house."

I eventually settled on a pale green, glittered flower design and a periwinkle (blue-violet) swirly design that Tung liked on me right away and insisted that I get. I also eventually gave in and bought Italian cloth for a pair of dress pants and a gray business suit.

The saddest sight around Ben Thanh were the people who went around trying to sell lottery tickets, especially to "Viet Kieu," we Vietnamese visiting from the US. Most of the lotto-ticket sellers were crippled, handicapped, or mentally impaired. Viet Nam's government does not provide Social Security income, handicap funds, or any other special services to aid them; they either have to learn to make it on their own, or rely on the aid of relatives for the rest of their lives.

And yet, they had such an amazing sense of pride, as if, used to such adversity, this small barrier is not enough to conquer their indomitable spirit. A lotto ticket costs $10,000 dong--less than 50 US cents. When Tung's mom wanted to buy a ticket but didn't have change, she tried to give the seller the whole $20,000 dong, but he told her that he wouldn't accept charity and would only take her money if she would buy two tickets in return.

There was also a boy, maybe in his teens, with Down's Syndrome. He passed by us several times on his rounds since Tung's family spent so much time at the same vendor. He was accompanied by a man (most likely his father), and the boy's tongue was so stiff that he could only force out a garbled bellow when he invited people to buy his tickets. His father was a decent man who recognized "no" as an answer and never allowed the boy to ask twice for a person to buy. Something about the unspoken love and dedication between a father and the son he was determined to see succeed brought tears to my eyes when the scene re-played itself in the middle of the night as I lay in bed.

That evening, after a brief respite at the hotel where we enjoyed to-go rice lunches from a nearby vendor (we are starting to gain confidence in our ability to tolerate the questionable food quality), we went back to An Dong to drop off our fabric to a tailor who did vests and suits. For someone used to buying clothes off store racks, cursing at the length of pants because they usually required alteration, getting a numbered ticket to a fitting room to try on the outfits, and buying generic sizes, the level of customization at the tailor's was like stepping into a different world. They were so well-versed in their profession that they took measurements faster than I could type a one-paragraph email. I was asked to pick from a catalog of styles, alter what's in the photos any way I'd like, customize a body-hugging or loose fit, and specify the style of my suit jacket and pants (straight-legs or boot-cut? With or without a button flap above the zipper? How many centimeters for the height of the button flap? What type of cut for my suit's lapel? Did I prefer two buttons or three down the vest?). Below, Di Ha (Tung's youngest aunt on his mother's side) is getting measured for her suit.

I couldn't wait to find how the suits would come out. I could seriously get used to this level of customization for my wardrobe.

Co Xuan took us to dinner at Sao Bien (Starfish), an outdoor restaurant with a mini playground and green lights projected to the tall trees, giving them a verdant glow. She said the place was popular for kids' birthday parties--hence, the playground. They also had a Christmas tree built out of empty Heineken bottles, which I discovered was popular not only in this restaurant but in other parts of Viet Nam as well.

Tung's family went to mass at 9:00PM with the hotel owners, who also invited them to a midnight meal. I had meant to go along to check out the night life on one of the busiest times of the year in Saigon, but I fell asleep to the sound of midnight church bells that heralded the coming of Christmas.