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Vietnam
RENEWAL
To know what you prefer instead of humbly saying amen to what the world tells you to prefer, is to have kept your soul alive.
Robert Louis Stevenson
At 11 p.m. during my last night in Vietnam's central city of Hue, former capital until 1945, and the S-shaped country's fifth largest city, most tourists sipped cocktails at their hotels overlooking the Perfume River, home to 5,000 fisherman and gravel miners. Other visitors rode mopeds and hired tri-shaws around town. Me? I was in a tailor's silk shop ordering a dress.
I had to have an ao dai - the national attire of the elegant women of Vietnam - a high-collar, long-sleeve, ankle-length tunic with a tight-bodice that is slit from the waist down and worn over complementary slacks.
I was feeling unattractive, what with alternating two pair of pants, rotating four tops and my hair crying for its overdue perm. My only pair of dress shoes - soft, black walking clogs - was scuffed, dusty and caked with mud. And my nail polish had chipped into tiny views of the world map. So, I took what little glamour I could get.
Miss Lam outlined my measurements, promised to sew through the night and then express mail the purple silk creation to me in Hanoi. We were giddy with fatigue as we studied my itinerary, working through the final logistics of our transaction.
In Hanoi, my last night in Vietnam, I tried on Miss Lam's ao dai. It fit perfectly. Who are these incredible women who whip up silk dresses in the middle of the night and before getting started, escort you back to your hotel on their motorbikes?
I checked the full-length mirror, smoothing the purple silk along my waist. With a fresh set of nails, my hair in a twist and a shoeshine from Saigon, I felt like a million bucks.
You don't have to spend money to feel like a million. A good night's sleep, a quiet walk by the river or a hug from your favorite person will do the trick.
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