You Wait
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re in Mui Ne, Vietnam. It’s a little beach town that we visited the first time we were in Vietnam, in 2016. At that time, we discovered that the hotel proprietor, who is Lee’s age, had grown up in Ft. Lauderdale, and we bonded. So we’re here, their first post-pandemic customers, catching up and relaxing and remembering all the things we love about Vietnam. I wrote the following essay when we were in Ho Chi Minh City (aka Saigon), during that same first visit in 2016—back when we were nomad rookies.
You Wait
Sometimes it’s the simple things that wear me out. The challenging part is that you never know what the glitch is going to be until you stumble over it. Some days it’s an adventure. Some days it’s just A Thing That Didn’t Go As Expected.
Take this afternoon. I ran out of cotton balls a couple of days ago, & have been using a tissue (which is really a sort of waxy napkin) to swab toner over my face. It’s less than ideal.
So after lunch today (when it was about 90 degrees in the shade—the worse time to get anything done), I decided to make my 3rd effort to purchase new cotton balls. This time we went to the central market building, because it’s full of little stalls that seem to sell just about everything.
We stepped out of the sun, into the dim, still, mothball-scented air of the building, and peered around. As a tourist, all I have to do to get help in the central market is show up and stand still. Someone will scurry over to help in 3 seconds flat—often several someones. On this particular occasion, I was ready. I had a picture of cotton balls on my phone. Genius!
A very kind woman asked what we were looking for, so I showed her the picture. She showed the woman in the neighboring stall, and they discussed it for a moment. They seemed weirdly perplexed, so I tried to help: I demonstrated dabbing liquid on my face with a cotton ball. It’s a universal gesture, right? I mean, you could do that—show someone how you dab a stupidly expensive, frivolous product on your vain, pampered face every day. I’m making this dabbing motion, breaking out in a heavy sweat. It’s 90 degrees. I’m hot. The toothpaste we’re using has given me a rash on my lips which is exacerbated by sweat. My lips are on fire. But that’s all fine, because this kind woman pats me on the arm and says, “You wait.”
I wait.
After a couple of minutes, in which her neighbor wants to sell me coffee, tea, cashews, pretty much anything, she comes back, PUTS ON HER HAT, and pats me on the arm again.
“You wait.”
I wait. I sweat. I hiss at Lee to come back from wherever he’s wandered off to, looking for a breath of moving air. I’m not stressed, I’m just feeling a little awkward & don’t wish to be left too alone. I have no mental precedent for how to handle this situation (except for the time it happened when I went looking for body wash; that day I walked out empty-handed): I’m trying to buy cotton balls from the proprietor of a shop, & she appears to have gone foraging?
I have a fleeting vision of cotton fields, the last straggly white puffs left behind by the huge mechanical harvester. I haven’t seen any cotton growing around here, have I? I wrack my brain. Maybe I’m going to get those little cotton squares that I dislike, or gauze pads, or quilt stuffing, or a washcloth, or something that comes out of the inside of disposable diapers. There’s no telling.
What in the world is going on, and why is it taking so long?
Also, why do all the feminine hygiene products here have wings? I hate wings. I examine every pack of sanitary pads in the booth, and in the 4 surrounding booths, while I wait, sweating. I try not to bother the woman who is napping on a mat in front of her stall, but she has the only fan, so I’m shamelessly hovering near her feet.
Finally—finally! My savior comes back, a small black plastic bag dangling from her hand. My heart leaps—cotton balls! Mission accomplished.
She unties the top of the bag and pulls out . . . 4 small white chunks, each wrapped in plastic. They look a little like marble nipples. She beams at me. She has gone God only knows where, braved the Vietnamese sun and motorbikes and for all I know the demons of hell to bring me something that looks like a disk of compressed Tide, or maybe a piece of rock. I’m gobsmacked.
No matter. I have to buy some, obviously. This woman has gone to great effort to help me. My feeling of obligation weighs heavily here, in this market, but also in this country, where people are so quick to go out of their way for me. I am not accustomed to such . . . kindness, for want of a better word. I understand the whole customer/salesperson dynamic—I’m 48, after all, & have a long, healthy history of buying stuff, but somehow it feels different here. I can’t imagine anyone at the CVS going to that kind of effort.
I dig for my wallet. I’ll take 2. I didn’t ask for 4—hopefully she means to keep some for the next crazy American who wants to scrub her face with a pumice.
They’re 30,000 dong each. I hesitate—I was hoping they’d be less than that, but I have no choice. Two, I say. I’ll take two.
Four, she counters. You want four?
No. My backbone finally shows up. Definitely just two. I hand her 60,000 and beat a hasty retreat.
“What are those?” Lee asks as we slink out into the sun.
“I have no idea. But we have $2.70 worth.”
Addendum: I asked at the front desk of our hotel, & I still don’t entirely understand what they are. Some kind of handmade, old-fashioned acne/facial product, I believe. They might also have something to do with threading. Because of course. Threading.
Take care,
Lisa
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