There’s something about a custom suit that always felt out of reach. It’s one of those bougie indulgences you imagine reserved for hedge-fund managers, wedding parties, or guys who actually know the difference between a Windsor knot and a half-Windsor. Not me. But here in Vietnam, where the hum of scooters and the smell of grilling pork hang in the air, the idea suddenly becomes attainable.
Two hundred bucks. That’s all it takes. Two hundred to step into a tailor’s shop that feels like it’s been standing since French Indochina, and suddenly you’re the center of attention. Bolts of fabric tower like cathedral walls. A quiet man with a tape measure regards you like a sculptor considering raw marble. You get to pick the lining, the cut, the little details no one notices but you. For once, you’re not buying off the rack. For once, it’s yours.
There’s a strange joy in the ritual. Standing still while someone takes your measure, the faint sound of scissors slicing through cloth in the background, the whir of an old sewing machine that’s probably seen a thousand suits before yours. It’s not just vanity—it’s the thrill of taking part in something old, something human. Craft. Tradition.
I walked out lighter in the wallet but heavier with the knowledge that sometimes life’s luxuries aren’t out of reach—they’re just in the wrong country. And maybe that’s the point of travel: to realize that the things you thought were impossible back home are waiting for you, right here, if you’re willing to look.
