I am waist deep in brassieres.
The shopkeeper thrusts more and more lacy lingerie my way, while pulling from a Jenga tower of ribbons, tulle and silk that threatens to engulf us both.
I knew it was a mistake to go bra shopping at the market in Hanoi.
Still, I have no other option. I’ve been traveling for 11 months with the same two bras. They are utilitarian. One black, one nude. They are not pretty.
Over time, the nude bra has received considerably more wear and tear. It was stained after sharing the wash with Thai pants that leaked blue dye. It is literally falling apart at the seams. It smells like a musty gym sock, thanks to a laundromat that stuffed my clothes into a plastic bag before they were fully dry. I no longer want it close to my skin.
So I was seduced by the layers of pretty lace at the market. But the shopkeeper doesn’t understand that I am a well-endowed woman.
She doesn’t speak English. I don’t speak Vietnamese.
She hands me bras that look like wispy handkerchiefs, bras so flat they are practically concave, and push-up bras with sacks of saline strategically positioned in each cup. I can’t wear those.
I point to my chest. I cup my hands in front and make a sinking gesture with my palms. “Big,” I say. “Very big.”
The woman nods. She pulls out more bras. She tosses them my way in rapid succession, like a blackjack dealer who works in underwear instead of cards.
Some of them are horrifically ugly in rhinestoned florals, garish crimson with gold sequins, cartoon characters. Some of them still have no chance of fitting around my frame.
I point to my chest again. “Very big,” I say. “Big like mango.”
A small crowd has formed now. They have come from the nearby perfume stalls, the shoe stalls, the purse stalls. They are gaping at the weird white lady who keeps grabbing herself, hoisting her boobs into the air, yelling, “Bigger!”
She nods. We go through the whole thing again. More bras, none that will ever fit. All of them have tags that say A. I scribble down letters for the shopkeeper. C? D? Z?
After searching the recesses of her stall, a look of calm washes over the shopkeeper’s face. She plops down pretty white lace with cups as big and round as Vietnamese soup bowls. She nudges it my way.
“Try,” she says.
So I try. There is no dressing room, so I have to stretch the bra over top my brown dress.
I strike a pose and model it for the crowd. A handful of people clap. Success.
Next comes the dance where we haggle over the price. However, after rummaging through 400 bras and finding only one that works, there is little room for negotiation. I want that bra, and the shopkeeper knows it.
I walk away with a $7 bra and a load off my chest.
