Vietnam

While having lunch in Hà Tinh with a family I had met at the bus station, I noticed a tattoo on the father's arm. The tattoo was of a peace sign with two dates around it. Curious, as this was the first tattoo I had witnessed on a local, I had to get to the bottom of it.

LG: What do the dates on your tattoo stand for?

A: The one above the peace sign is my birthday. The one below is the day an American bomb dropped 20 feet away from me when I was fighting for the country's unification during the war. I was badly injured and had to undergo surgery, and my back to this day is still very weak.

LG: Did many people you know die in the war?

A: Many. I had many friends who died, one brother, and several cousins.

LG: How do you feel now about Americans? Is it strange that you just had an American for lunch in your house?

A: Not at all. I tattooed this peace sign on my arm because I bear no grudge. All I want is peace now. I do not want to remember the war. The memories are no good. I think Americans are Number 1. Some of my family has moved to America, and I hope, though I think I will never have the money, to visit your country. Now eat up. Your fish is getting cold.

I first heard about Hoi An a month before I arrived in Vietnam. I was talking to a previous Let's Go Vietnam researcher and he remarked that he had really enjoyed Hoi An, in part because he had had a couple of suits made there—he wished he had ordered more. I didn't pay much attention; clothing, as a regional attraction, didn't strike me as all that compelling. This sentiment didn't change much through my first weeks in the country, even as I closed in on Hoi An and met travelers decked out in their new suits. I pulled into town with tailoring low on my list. Then everything changed for me—as well it should have.

Having tailored clothes made for you in a day is a rush. While the constant invitation into clothing shops may try one's patience, all is forgotten as the imagination runs wild with the prospect of creating a new outfit.

The process begins with the selection of the desired article of clothing. Almost all shops have a collection of Western catalogues to help with selection. You can either choose something exactly as shown or mix and match, creating completely unique gear. After you select the item and the fabric (from a remarkable variety), it's time to settle on the price.

I chose to have two suits and a pair of pinstripe trousers made, and I got the price down from US$145 to US$115. After negotiations were over, I was measured and sent happily on my way, thinking only of my next tailoring opportunity, as my creative tendencies had been awakened. I gave the seamstresses two days and they were very thankful; most requests are for 24hr. I returned the following day and tried on the suits. They looked great but were a little tight. I didn't think much of it, but realizing that this was the place to have any altering done, I mentioned the problem and they were more than happy to make the corrections. The following day, everything was finished—I almost wished that I was returning home to a professional job, or at least a job interview.

I headed up the street to the post office to mail everything home—I wasn't planning to carry around a couple suits for another month—and the mail clerks were helpful, being quite accustomed to visitors' needs. While they packaged my clothes (for free), I filled out several customs forms and paid an exorbitant amount to ship them home. Still, even after the US$75 charge, I was getting a great deal. The entire experience began stressfully, with eager vendors and tough decisions, but after the leap was made, I had to exercise serious discipline. Any trip to Hoi An should include a trip to the tailors, if for nothing but the experience of the long-forgotten art of custom-making wardrobes.

—Danny Koski-Karell

Ever been bothered by your pets scrounging under the table for scraps of food? Rest assured that in northern Vietnam, pets wouldn't want to—they would be eating their childhood playmates. In Vietnam, dogs are multi-purpose animals, serving as both man's best friend and his best meat—which makes for some surprisingly tasty entrees. The smell and taste of dog meat is fairly powerful, and well complemented by alcohol. Fido is generally fried up and served with a raw green called lámo. You can order thit chó, which is a stir-fried dog meat, but the most supple part of a dog is loñg chó, the stomach.

Think again if you imagine that cute little kitties get off the hook. Given the recent rat problem, eating cats has actually been outlawed in Hà Nÿi. Farther north, however, you can feast on con mèo in local establishments. The meat from these introspective animals is fatty and can be difficult to chew, but stir-fried with some veggies it's actually a real treat.

Even travelers who consider themselves oblivious to animal rights may be a bit unnerved to witness dogs experiencing the same treatment as chickens or cattle. If the house pets up north seem a bit timid, understand the psychological stress they're suffering. Friend and food have never been so close.