Taking Ao Dai Around the World: One Photographer's Mission

Why I Started Photographing Ao Dai Across the Globe

For years, I've traveled with intention. In 70 countries so far, my luggage always contains the same items: a Vietnamese flag, a conical hat, a checkered scarf, and several "ao dai." Not as souvenirs to collect dust—but as tools to do something specific: introduce Vietnam.

The project came from conversations with travelers I met abroad. Foreign friends kept saying the same thing: wear the "ao dai" in front of famous landmarks and photograph it. They saw something I'd intuited but never articulated—that a traditional Vietnamese garment against an iconic global site creates a kind of visual handshake between cultures.

The goal is 100 ao dai photos at 100 famous landmarks in 100 countries. I'm at 70 now.

This isn't the first time clothing has been used as cultural diplomacy. Japan has kimono, India has the sari, Korea has hanbok. But the ao dai (아오자이 / 奥黛 / アオザイ) occupies a unique lane: it's form-fitting, modern in silhouette, and immediately identifiable even to people who've never set foot in Hanoi or Saigon. That combination of elegance and specificity is what makes it work as a photographic subject. You don't need a caption. The garment speaks.

What Happens When People Recognize It

The most rewarding part isn't the photography itself. It's the moment a stranger looks at you wearing the "ao dai (아오자이 / 奥黛 / アオザイ)" and says the word aloud: "Ao dai!" That recognition—from someone who has never been to Vietnam—carries weight. It means the garment communicates something real about our culture. It means it works.

Those moments reinforce why I'm doing this. The ao dai isn't just fabric. It's a symbol that exists independent of any explanation I give. When a tourist in Canada or France or Japan can name it, can see its elegance without context, that's when I know the work matters.

I've had people in Prague ask to take photos together. In Buenos Aires, a woman stopped me on the street to say her daughter studied in Da Nang and she recognized the garment immediately. At a temple complex in Kyoto, a group of Japanese students wanted to know where they could try one on. These aren't scripted interactions—they happen organically, and they happen often enough that a pattern is clear. The ao dai creates an opening. It gives strangers permission to walk up and start a conversation about Vietnam, about travel, about culture. That kind of soft introduction is hard to manufacture any other way.

Image by Zeus Studio Zeus Studio via Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA)

Niagara Falls and the 70th Milestone

In late July, I reached my 70th location at Niagara Falls. I chose a vibrant blue ao dai—the color meant to signal hope—and positioned myself against the roar of water that straddles the U.S.-Canada border.

There's something deliberate about selecting each landmark and each garment color. The research is exhaustive. Which shade of ao dai will complement this site? What time of day gives the best light? How do I get the framing right so the landmark frames the garment, not swallows it?

The logistics are their own puzzle. Border crossings, travel permits, finding the right angle when a location has restrictions. But that friction is part of the commitment.

For Niagara specifically, the mist was the enemy. The ao dai is silk—water is not its friend. I had about a 15-minute window where the wind shifted and the spray thinned enough to shoot cleanly. That kind of narrow margin is common. At high-altitude sites, the fabric catches wind and billows unpredictably. In desert locations, dust clings to it. Each environment forces adaptation. You learn quickly that photographing traditional clothing outdoors at world landmarks is as much problem-solving as it is art.

Image by Zeus Studio Zeus Studio via Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA)

The Ao Dai as a Bridge

This project turns the ao dai into something beyond clothing. It becomes a conversation starter. A visual proof that Vietnamese culture is distinctive, elegant, and worth knowing.

By placing it in diverse international contexts—against natural wonders, architectural feats, urban sprawls—I'm making a claim: Vietnam belongs in the world's cultural conversation. Not as exotic, not as backdrop. As equal.

The hope is that people who see these images will search for more about Vietnam. They'll wonder about the garment's history, how it's worn, why it matters. A single photo can spark that curiosity. It's modest work, but it scales.

Back home, that same garment carries a different but equally rich context. Walk down Nguyen Hue in Saigon during Tet and you'll see ao dai everywhere—on women heading to pagodas, on students posing for family photos, on performers at flower festivals. In Hue, the old imperial capital, ao dai has a particular reverence; local government employees still wear it to work on certain days of the week, and the annual Hue Festival often features ao dai processions along the Perfume River near the Imperial Citadel. In Hoi An, tailor shops along Le Loi and Tran Phu streets will custom-make an ao dai in 24 hours for around 800,000–1,500,000 VND depending on fabric quality. Visitors who want a fitting souvenir beyond the usual "banh mi" t-shirt often leave with one.

How the Ao Dai Travels: Practical Realities

People ask me constantly: how do you actually travel with ao dai without destroying them? Fair question. Silk wrinkles, satin snags, and embroidered panels don't fold neatly into a backpack.

Here's what I've learned across 70 countries. First, I roll each ao dai around a cardboard tube—the kind you'd find inside a poster mailer—and slide the tube into a garment bag. This prevents hard creases. Second, I carry a portable steamer that weighs about 300 grams. Hotel irons are unreliable and too hot for silk; a steamer takes two minutes and won't scorch the fabric. Third, I always pack a backup. Luggage gets lost. Rain happens. I once had an ao dai tear on a fence post in Morocco. If that had been my only one, the shoot would have been dead.

The ao dai itself varies by destination. For cold-weather shoots—Scandinavia, Patagonia, the Scottish Highlands—I use thicker brocade fabrics in deep reds or golds. For tropical locations, lighter silk in white or pastel shades photographs better against lush greenery. The pants underneath are always loose-fitting and white, which is traditional, but I've experimented with matching colors for certain compositions.

Weight matters when you're crossing borders frequently. The full kit—three ao dai, steamer, accessories, conical hat, flag, scarves—adds roughly 4 kg to my luggage. That's a real cost when budget airlines charge per kilo.

Where the Ao Dai Meets Vietnamese Food and Culture Abroad

One unexpected side effect of this project: every shoot turns into a mini food tour. When I arrive in a new city wearing ao dai, local Vietnamese diaspora communities often find me. Word travels fast on social media. A post from the morning shoot in, say, Melbourne, and by evening I'll have invitations to a family-run "pho" restaurant in Richmond or a "ca phe" shop in Footscray.

These encounters have led me to Vietnamese food enclaves I'd never have found otherwise. In Paris, a woman who recognized the ao dai near the Eiffel Tower walked me to her cousin's "bun cha" spot in the 13th arrondissement. In Houston, a Vietnamese-American family invited me to a weekend gathering where they served "goi cuon" and "banh xeo" and insisted I wear the ao dai for group photos. In Tokyo, a Vietnamese exchange student who spotted me near Senso-ji temple recommended a small place in Shin-Okubo serving decent "bun bo Hue."

The garment functions as a passport within the diaspora. It signals: I'm from home. And the response is almost always food. That tracks—Vietnamese culture expresses welcome and identity through what it puts on the table. "Com tam" in Saigon, "egg coffee" in Hanoi, "mi quang" in Da Nang, "cao lau" in Hoi An—each dish carries regional pride the same way the ao dai carries national pride.

Common Surprises for People Following This Project

A few things consistently catch people off guard when they learn about this work:

The cost is real. This isn't sponsored travel. Flights, visas, accommodations, replacement garments, photography equipment—it adds up. A single shoot in a remote country can cost several million VND in logistics alone before the camera even comes out.

Not every country welcomes street photography. In some Middle Eastern and Central Asian countries, wearing a conspicuous traditional garment from another culture draws security attention. I've been questioned by police twice—once politely, once less so. Knowing local laws on public photography is non-negotiable.

The ao dai is physically demanding to wear for hours. It's not loungewear. The high collar restricts neck movement. The fitted bodice means you feel every deep breath. Standing in it for a two-hour shoot in 35-degree heat is genuinely uncomfortable. People see the final photo and think it was effortless. It wasn't.

People assume I'm promoting a fashion brand. I'm not. There's no commercial angle. The ao dai in these photos aren't from a single designer or label. Some were made by tailors in Hanoi's Old Quarter, some from shops on Hai Ba Trung Street in Saigon, some from Hoi An. The project is cultural, not commercial.

Reactions vary enormously by region. In Southeast Asia, people often recognize the ao dai immediately—Vietnam's neighbors are familiar with it. In South America and Africa, it's almost always new to people, and the curiosity is intense. In Europe, reactions split: older generations sometimes connect it to historical awareness of Vietnam, while younger people tend to approach it purely as fashion.

Quick Reference: The Ao Dai World Tour at a Glance

• Countries completed: 70 of 100
• Garments in rotation: approximately 8–10 ao dai at any time
• Average shoot duration: 1–3 hours per location
• Key gear: DSLR camera, portable steamer, cardboard garment tubes, backup ao dai
• Most-photographed ao dai color: red (used at roughly 20 locations)
• Custom ao dai cost in Vietnam: 800,000–3,000,000 VND depending on fabric and embroidery
• Best cities to have ao dai tailored: Hoi An (fastest turnaround, 24–48 hours), Hue (traditional cuts), Saigon (widest fabric selection)
• Total luggage weight for ao dai kit: approximately 4 kg
• Where to see ao dai daily in Vietnam: Hue (government offices, schools), Saigon (weddings, Tet), Hanoi (Temple of Literature, cultural events)

What's Next: 30 Countries to Go

With 70 down, 30 remain. Each new location is fresh territory. The planning never stops—researching landmarks, coordinating travel, thinking about which ao dai color and style will create the strongest visual statement for each site.

It's challenging and logistically complex. But it's also a form of cultural pride that doesn't require speeches or arguments. Just a photograph. Just the ao dai in the frame.

At the end of 100, I'll have a visual archive of what it looks like when Vietnam travels. When our garment meets the world's most recognized places. That's the real goal: proof that culture travels, connects, and persists.

Final Note

The ao dai doesn't need translation. That's the whole point of this project—and the reason it resonates with people who've never tasted pho or walked through the Old Quarter in Hanoi. Clothing, like food, communicates before language does. Thirty countries remain, and each one is another chance to prove that a single garment, folded carefully into a suitcase, can carry an entire culture across any border.