A Hamlet Tailor-Made for Repose

The word of mouth on Hoi An had become a gathering chorus.

We first heard of this town near Vietnam’s central coast way back in Fiji, during the early days of our journey. An Australian woman we met at a beach resort had been here three times. Raves for Hoi An followed us wherever we went, from New Zealand to Nepal. “You’ve got to go there,” some traveler always seemed to be gushing. “You’ll love it.”

Andrea and I were soon certain of a visit here. The only question was whether Hoi An would live up to the hype. Much to our delight, it exceeded it.

Little Hoi An is a part of Vietnam but a world apart. Sitting on the Thu Bon River three miles from the South China Sea and about midway between Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City, it retains an Old World charm from its days as a thriving port of call for Dutch, Portuguese, Japanese and Chinese trading ships. Unblemished by the Vietnam War, the pretty hamlet belongs more to the 17th century than to the 21st.

We knew we had arrived somewhere special when our taxi south from the Da Nang airport parked several blocks from our hotel. The historical heart of town is closed to vehicles, helping us imagine we had been transported back in time. We carried our bags down narrow streets, past faded yellow buildings with green shutters. The roofs are topped with clay tiles, and silk brocade Chinese lanterns hang from the eaves. Day or night, the town fairly glows.

At the Vinh Hung Hotel, an old building that was once a Chinese trading house, we were shown to the Antiques Room, the inn’s most elegant quarters. The $30-a-night room boasts a four-poster bed with canopy and lace curtains. Other antiques, including an inlaid mother-of-pearl desk, sit against walls of rich ebony wood. The one concession to modernity, a remote-controlled air conditioner, was welcome relief from the stifling heat.

There is little to do in Hoi An but linger and soak up the atmosphere. This is a stylish place, where young women wearing smart crocheted hats pedal bikes through the streets. Most of the sights--ethnic Chinese assembly halls, old private homes, a restored covered bridge originally built by the Japanese community in 1593--are accessible by foot, allowing visitors to browse art galleries along the way.

Hoi An’s spot on Vietnam’s culinary map is claimed by cao lau, a simple but sumptuous mix of thick noodles, bean sprouts, croutons, greens and pork slices, served in a soup bowl. Another local dish that pleased our taste buds and eyes was “white rose,” a plate of shrimp individually wrapped in wide noodles and folded into flower shapes.

All of the restaurants we tried were good, but the Tam Tam Cafe & Bar was exceptional. We dined on the balcony of the restored tea warehouse, feasting on duck and homemade noodles while listening to recorded jazz. For dessert, I scarfed down the best profiteroles I’ve had outside France.

After three days of grazing and lazing, we decided to do something constructive. Or, I should say, we hired some people to do something constructive. Hoi An is known for its many fabric stores, where expert tailors can turn out a suit of clothes for less than the cost of alterations in the States.

Andrea and I occupy opposite positions on the fashion front. She has a humongous wardrobe and needs little excuse to expand it. All my clothes fit in a laundry bag, yet I’m always keen to pare down. In their respective ways, two Hoi An tailors accommodated both of us.

Andrea settled on the My My Cloth Shop, lauded by previous customers in a letter posted at our hotel. She was measured for a skirt, pantsuit and three blouses--all silk. The clothes were ready overnight, fit perfectly and totaled $53.

I assumed all Hoi An tailors are equally skilled and followed an adorable 16-year-old tout to her mother’s shop in the market. Seated in a toy chair at a toy table and offered a toy cup of tea, I flipped through a J. Crew catalog, stopping at a page depicting a dashing man in an off-white summer suit. Sure, I figured, why not? A pair of women traded giggles as they ran a measuring tape over every inch of my body and jotted down various numbers. The only truly ridiculous figure was the price--$30.

When I returned the next day for my $30 suit, it looked like, well, a $30 suit. The thread did not match the fabric, the material puckered and the jacket gave me the range of motion of a mummy. I donated it to whomever might find it in our hotel room.

Before leaving town, I stopped by Andrea’s tailor. I wanted something to remind me of this place. I was measured for an outfit that, like Hoi An, is classy yet relaxed--silk pajamas.

NEXT WEEK: How a huge part of the journey is spent simply getting from point A to B.

Did you miss a Wander Year installment? The entire series since it began in January can be found on The Times’ Web site at https://www.latimes.com/travel/wander.