When Tibetan friends get that tone in their voice it would be vanity to refuse. So I stretched on the rickety bench, grabbed another cabbage dumpling with my chopsticks and eyed the flies bouncing lazily into the sheer sheet wrapped around the otherwise open nunnery tea house.
She had just bought a new, very pink, sun hat which her boyfriend now held on his knee. Do you like this hat? I asked him. This one eh? he asked back, then, in Tibetan, it looks like she picked it up from the ground. She glared at him while I nearly choked with laugher and tea.
We ate quickly.
Let's go, she said, arranging her picked up off the ground hat neatly on her head, but first I want you to see something. I sighed as we three darted down an alley towards what I knew was a temple which I was tired of having to see. But when we arrived, instead of golden colored idols sitting in rows, she pointed out to me pots of flowers. It's a beautiful garden, I know you like flowers, she said. I beamed with delight and freedom.
We ended up wandering around the alleys of downtown Lhasa, in and out of Tibetan clothing shops as she bemoaned the fact that they only sold grandmother cloth. We arrived at a shop the size of a closet and she let go of my elbow and said here, now you must choose a color you like.
A ream of turquoise cloth later and a coral colored shirt to match and she was satisfied only once the addition of a striped apron made the ensemble complete. As I stood being awkwardly measured by a small Tibetan girl, who continually commented on the good shape of my body, my friend's boyfriend paced a little staring at his sandals. I think the colors are very perfect, he said.
It's so special they agreed, and we arranged to pick it up a few days later.
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First we we shop for a surprise, my colleague said, then have lunch.
When Tibetan friends get that tone in their voice it would be vanity to refuse. So I and two colleagues got on a bus on a too hot afternoon and I cradled a jar of ice water on my knees. We got off the bus and again entered the labyrinth of downtown Lhasa alleys, occasionally scraping someone with the edge of our umbrellas, only to end up in a small shop roughly the size of a closet filled with cloth and a small woman with a tape measure around her neck. I smiled. Surprise! they said.
Pick a good color they said and we rummaged through a stack of cloth in dozens of different patterns and colors. This time I chose a purpleish maroon one with some gold details and my friends bubbled with delight. Now for the shirt, and they dragged me two steps to the other wall of the shop. Before I even had a chance to survey the options one colleague had decided for me on a white sheer shirt with blots like oil spills all over it. So beautiful! they said nodding eagerly.
The woman with the tape measure put me in the shirt and threw the ream of cloth over my shoulder. A Tibetan grandfather spinning a rusty looking wheel tilted his hat back as he rested in the shade of the shop and surveyed the goings on. When I made eye contact with him he gave me a toothless grin and a thumbs up. Is it beautiful? I asked him. So beautiful, he said and shuffled away.
As I stood with my arms out, once again being awkwardly measured while the woman commented on the shape of my body my friends nodded in silent approval. We thought a long time about this surprise they said and asked the woman to choose a striped apron to complete the ensemble.
It's so special, they agreed and we arranged to pick it up a few days later.
We ate a uniquely Tibetan lunch of luhbi, fried potatoes, patsuhmogu, loco momo's and a Tibetan rendition of a samosa. As we sat chatting and picking through our odd assortment of plastic bags of food in a restaurant that was so narrow one could almost reach the opposite wall from where you sat, I considered my two recent fittings...
Until this past week, I have never had the experience of being fitted for anything that was made just for me as a gift. Now, I've had it twice.
And I agree wholeheartedly with my friends: it's so special.
