There aren’t many faux pas worse than being improperly dressed for a big night out. Since arriving in Vienna to work on my Master’s thesis, my friend Simone insisted I attend the Jaeger Ball – an annual ball which called for trachten (traditional) attire.

The “Hunters Ball” is by far one of the most popular dance events in Vienna with over 5,000 people under the paintedceilings of the Hofburg palace…indescribable. I felt honored to be one of the few Americans who would be attending.

Simone had planned our shopping day for months before my arrival and weheaded to Vienna’s fashionable First District in search of the finest dirndl. I cannot even pronounce the name properly. “Dern dull,” I say without rolling the ‘r’ in that sexy way my Austrian friend says it.

We’ve just entered a little Viennese storefront and I’m having a Laura Ashley flashback circa 1970.The dirndl is four separate garments: a bodice, blouse, slip, and an apron. A portly sales woman waddles over with a forced grin. Simone takes over and soon she’s speaking in German, probably telling the woman I’m an American virgin dirndl shopper and to please excuse my ignorance.

“Jilly, look at this one,” my friend Simone says stroking the fabric of a pale, pink dress. Suddenly, amidst the cotton and chintz, a flashback hits me: I’m twelve, shopping for my first Junior High prom dress. Ah, that memorable night where nobody asked me to dance and I burst into tears when my dad picked me up afterwards. I shoved that tear-stained peasant dress with the ivory lace trim in the back of my closet, damned for eternity.

“Oh, my friend, I don’t know,” I say. There was also something about the rose shade that reminded me of a doll I had when I was four.

There are countless dresses wedged onto rack after rack; they come in a myriad of colors, mostly pastels and muted tones. Oh, here’s one with embroidered farm animals and cowbells. When I think “evening wear” I think “little black dress” and am overwhelmed by the choices. I struggle to slide the dresses along the clothes rack.

“Okay, start trying some on,” Simone prods. I get the impression by her crossed-arm stance this whole dirndl-selection-process should take about ten minutes.

When I show Simone the black dresses I’ve chosen, she looks at me like I’ve just announced an interest in shooting wolves from helicopters. But I stand my ground, determined not give in to anything resembling an Easter egg.

“Jilly! What color apron do you want?” Simone asks sensing my hesitation.

Apron?

“I think maybe I just won’t wear the apron,” I say. Her face drops. And if the apron reference isn’t bad enough, I keep referring to the dirndl as a costume— until my friend finally snaps back, clinging to a mannequin’s green plaid skirt, “This is an elegant dress, not a costume!”Without realizing it I’ve insulted my friend’s cultural fashion tradition. It was as if I’d asked the Sex and the City girls to go barefoot to a cocktail party.

I try to save face, “I think I want to wear aredapron.”

“Oooh,” she reacts smiling again. “The color ofdanger.”

Yes, I am in danger here. Danger of paying the equivalent of a laptop computer for some traditional Austrian garb I’ll probably wear once. I just can’t see it.

I gather up a few dresses and enter the dressing room. Simone hands me a slip and a blouse withwhite puffed sleeves and billows the size of eggplantsover the door and says, “Don’t forget these.”

Next, I step into the white cotton slip. The bottom is jagged with thick, white lace. The reveal has to be just right to peek out from under the dress’s hemline the exact length I’m told. This is much harder work than I’d anticipated.

I pick up the black dress with tiny embroidered flowers in pink and red around the surprisingly low neckline. The workmanship displays painstaking effort. I throw the heavy garment over my head and begin fastening the hooks and eyes that connect the bodice together. My waistline increases in mere seconds, engulfed by the massive folds of material that gather up the waist.

“Is this right?” I gasp. Surely I need a larger size…can’t breathe.

I fashion the apron around what once was my waistline and have even remembered to tie the apron’s bow to the left to alert the men at the ball I am single. (If you’re married, the bow goes on the right.)

As I step out of the dressing room the sales woman immediately instructs me to bend over, making strange gestures with her hands. Baffled by what she’s asking of me, the sales woman moves closer and places her plump fingers underneath my chest and hoists my breasts upward. She’s not shy about readjusting my girls to spill out even more than they already are atop the corset of pain.

I glance down and see unfamiliar cleavage.

“Fabelhaft!” — fabulous!— Simone shouts, knowing it’s the only German word I know apart from a few cuss words. My C cups have transformed into double Ds. I cannot stop staring at my own chest. I grab hold of my apron, twirling around singing, “I am sixteen, going on seventeen.” Simone and the woman laugh hysterically.

I finally understand the allure of these dresses. I feel like yodeling. ■

( views)

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Jill Paris is currently a graduate student at the University of Southern California in the Master of Professional Writing program.She holds an M.A. in Humanities and has taught at the university level.

She recently had a story appear in the literary travel magazine In the Mist and has also contributed to the Style section of Los Angeles magazine.

In summer 2009 she will embark on a journey to trace her Scottish heritage.Her personal motto: Live, Love, Laugh, Drink, Travel.