Diarrhea, Sandals and clothes
Yesterday after we finished our tour, I asked the driver to show us the beach. We had a free day coming up today and thought it might be a nice place to spend some time. It's a gorgeous beach, lots of shady palm trees and a delicious breeze. We were looking forward to today.
Alas. The traveller's curse hit Hans hard. Since we were hot and tired yesterday afternoon, we planned to spend the rest of the day at the hotel pool which turned out to be a really good idea when the first trots hit. Hans got a bad case though he felt okay, but being in the hotel turned out to be a very smart move.
So, we decided no beach today. I got a fairly mild case which I attribute to all the mango, pineapple, papaya and watermelon I've been eating but I certainly didn't mind being close to a clean, western toilet.
But before the trots hit us yesterday, we asked our guide to take us to a tailor and he said there was one beside cousin's sandal shop, so what the hell, any store was a crap shoot to us so we went there.
"You have feet like a baby." At my puzzled look, she explained, "No wrinkles." I told Lea, his cousin, that was because my feet were so hot and swollen, they inflated and all the wrinkles had been smoothed out. She laughed though I don't think she got it. But she has perfected the art of selling custom-made shoes. Before I left, I ordered a pair of leather sandals with a thick, cushiony sole. No savings, however, they do fit comfortably on my swollen 'baby' feet.
Meanwhile next door, Hans had already instructed the saleslady on the trousers he wanted. I checked everything out and told the girl to add an inside pocket big enough to put his passport and money when he's travelling. The pants would be ready today, she said.
At the appointed time we showed up to get the pants, which were delivered 15 minutes later by scooter, and the first thing I looked for was the secret inside pocket. Not there.
"Where's the inside pocket?" I asked Anne. She gasped, covered her face, and said "I forgot". I handed the pants back. I think she was hoping I'd say forget it, but that wasn't happening. Furious vietnamese ensued between her and the driver, who was also the tailor. He didn't look too happy. In the end, she showed me where they could put the pocket, but it probably wouldn't be big enough for the passport. The driver sullenly took the pants and left. She was going to deliver them to the hotel but we said we'd wait. Good thing.
He handed me the pants when he came back and the first thing I did was check the pocket. It was Not inside. He had made a slit in the front and it was a pocket very similar to any back pocket a man would have in dress pants. "That's not an inside pocket," I said to him. "Where's Anne?" He hurried away to get her. I explained again what I wanted. "A secret, inside pocket to hide passport and money," I said. She looked blank. I stuck my hand in the front pocket of her jeans and said, "See, anyone can take something from your pocket," I demonstrated, and tried to slip my hand inside her tight jeans, saying "that where I want the pocket". Yes, I'm a slut. But she got it.
More furious Vietnamese was hurled back and forth. The driver/tailor stalked off and out the store. Without the pants. Anne asked for our hotel and room number and said they would deliver them to reception later. We left and had dinner.
When we got to the hotel, the pants were here. And they're perfect.
Alas. The traveller's curse hit Hans hard. Since we were hot and tired yesterday afternoon, we planned to spend the rest of the day at the hotel pool which turned out to be a really good idea when the first trots hit. Hans got a bad case though he felt okay, but being in the hotel turned out to be a very smart move.
So, we decided no beach today. I got a fairly mild case which I attribute to all the mango, pineapple, papaya and watermelon I've been eating but I certainly didn't mind being close to a clean, western toilet.
But before the trots hit us yesterday, we asked our guide to take us to a tailor and he said there was one beside cousin's sandal shop, so what the hell, any store was a crap shoot to us so we went there.
"You have feet like a baby." At my puzzled look, she explained, "No wrinkles." I told Lea, his cousin, that was because my feet were so hot and swollen, they inflated and all the wrinkles had been smoothed out. She laughed though I don't think she got it. But she has perfected the art of selling custom-made shoes. Before I left, I ordered a pair of leather sandals with a thick, cushiony sole. No savings, however, they do fit comfortably on my swollen 'baby' feet.
Meanwhile next door, Hans had already instructed the saleslady on the trousers he wanted. I checked everything out and told the girl to add an inside pocket big enough to put his passport and money when he's travelling. The pants would be ready today, she said.
At the appointed time we showed up to get the pants, which were delivered 15 minutes later by scooter, and the first thing I looked for was the secret inside pocket. Not there.
"Where's the inside pocket?" I asked Anne. She gasped, covered her face, and said "I forgot". I handed the pants back. I think she was hoping I'd say forget it, but that wasn't happening. Furious vietnamese ensued between her and the driver, who was also the tailor. He didn't look too happy. In the end, she showed me where they could put the pocket, but it probably wouldn't be big enough for the passport. The driver sullenly took the pants and left. She was going to deliver them to the hotel but we said we'd wait. Good thing.
He handed me the pants when he came back and the first thing I did was check the pocket. It was Not inside. He had made a slit in the front and it was a pocket very similar to any back pocket a man would have in dress pants. "That's not an inside pocket," I said to him. "Where's Anne?" He hurried away to get her. I explained again what I wanted. "A secret, inside pocket to hide passport and money," I said. She looked blank. I stuck my hand in the front pocket of her jeans and said, "See, anyone can take something from your pocket," I demonstrated, and tried to slip my hand inside her tight jeans, saying "that where I want the pocket". Yes, I'm a slut. But she got it.
More furious Vietnamese was hurled back and forth. The driver/tailor stalked off and out the store. Without the pants. Anne asked for our hotel and room number and said they would deliver them to reception later. We left and had dinner.
When we got to the hotel, the pants were here. And they're perfect.
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