Top 10 Best Essays About Hanoi

I am not originally from Hanoi, but the city has deeply influenced me throughout my life. From my childhood memories to the present, after decades of living here, my son, grandchildren, and I all began our lives in Hanoi. From my youth to my later years, I have lived, studied, and taught here. Even when I quietly fade into the silence of eternity, I will always belong to this place. To me, Hanoi is both distant and close, like an unexpected companion encountered along life’s journey—simultaneously empathetic yet distant, allowing for connection and love, but also maintaining enough space for reflection and contemplation. In my childhood and during the war years, Hanoi felt to me like the nostalgic yearning of the character in Thach Lam’s short story, a place “radiant and glittering,” full of “cool drinks in shades of green and red.” Hanoi was the joy of my mother buying me beautiful clothes from the Đức Hạnh store, one of the few remaining shops from the French colonial era on Hang Trong Street. It was the sensation of cold, melting ice cream that delighted me when older siblings took me to the Hoa Binh ice cream shop on Hang Bong Street. Hanoi was a mix of pride and embarrassment when my mother carefully chose a white hat woven from cornstalk fibers at Dong Xuan Market—a delicate, pure beauty that made me a subject of teasing among my classmates during air raid drills. While everyone wore yellow straw hats, I was the only one running with a white hat tied with a bow. Hanoi crystallized in my memories, especially in the image of my uncle’s old house on Hang Da Street, with its cool ebony wood floors and winding wooden stairs from the first to the third floor. Back then, the only electronic device we had was a bulky Orionton radio, but each summer break, my parents would take me to visit my uncle, where I would be captivated by the vivid images on his black-and-white TV. I found my uncle to be very much like the character Mrs. Hien in Nguyen Khai’s short story “A Hanoi Woman”—disciplined and strict. He taught me how to walk and sit properly, to avoid being hurried, as haste leads to trouble, but also to avoid moving too slowly, which annoys others. He also taught me the proper pronunciation, avoiding any regional accents that might be unpleasant to others. After meals, when we finished cleaning up (my uncle, unlike others, assigned tasks fairly to all his children and grandchildren without favoritism), the family would sit together to drink tea and watch TV. My aunt and the older women would knit, embroider, or crochet, while my cousins and I would listen to my uncle talk about world events, the situation in Vietnam, and life in Hanoi. The street in front of my uncle’s house felt like a small village—neighbors knew each other well enough to share stories, yet there was always enough respect for privacy. My aunt would sit, knitting, but with the precision of a traffic controller, always quick to react if anyone said anything inappropriate, halting her work and correcting the behavior with a subtle frown or smile. This attention to detail mirrored the self-respect of Hanoi’s people, much like the character of Mrs. Hien. I still remember how my uncle and aunt dressed. No one wore bell-bottoms, skinny pants, or tight shirts, which were common in the city where I lived. In my uncle’s house, everyone favored clothes in subdued colors with a sense of elegance and propriety. They avoided being trendy, which the youth today would call “following the trend.” No one had long, unruly hair, and no one went out with wrinkled clothes or messy hair. It was simple, elegant, and balanced—this, perhaps, reflected a sense of self-respect and respect for others. The 20th century, with its sirens and straw hats, with hopes and disappointments from the post-war era, has passed. We’ve also moved past the fears of the year 2000. Now, the 21st century is a quarter through, and the little girl born in the white-clouded land of Son Nam is now an old woman in Hanoi, pondering, forgetting much of the present but remembering so many moments from the past. Hanoi now feels fragmented within me, caught between the calm radiance of the past and the noisy, congested chaos of today. Many of my acquaintances have escaped the glowing halo of Hanoi, finding solace in the countryside, about 30 minutes from Hoan Kiem Lake. In the mornings, whole families drive to Hanoi for work and school like any other residents in the Old Quarter, then return to the peaceful countryside in the evenings. From morning to late at night, the streets are a labyrinth of chaos—cars, motorbikes, and tricycles (the latter, often with the inscription ‘The President still marches with us’—the drivers in old military uniforms with medals on their chests, driving recklessly with the privilege granted by their accessories). The sidewalks are not just filled with shops, makeshift markets, car washes, and hair salons, but also places for people to gather and drink beer, eat, and leave a sea of napkins scattered on the ground. They serve as emergency exits for vehicles that are caught in traffic during peak hours. Looking at the street, it’s rare to see a quiet house with its door closed or a homeowner casually watching the street. Almost all homes in Hanoi now use their storefronts to make a living. And from this, a different version of Hanoi appears—not the “glittering Hanoi” from Thach Lam’s story, hidden among the ancient trees by Hoan Kiem Lake, but a Hanoi today, polluted by the blinding light of neon signs, flashy billboards, and bright mannequins luring customers. Hanoi today is also polluted by sound—the honking of horns, the jumbled conversations with various accents, the vulgar curses, the shouting matches, and the noisy phone calls. However, I remain fascinated by the old houses in the Old Quarter. It seems that the pollution, both in terms of light, sound, and culture, only touches the first floor. The second floor still retains a sense of calm, with its pretty balconies, peaceful windows, and plants. Sometimes, if you look up, you’ll see elderly people with silver hair, dressed simply, watering plants, indifferent to the bustle of the streets below. Once, I shared this observation with a former student from the Old Quarter, and she laughed: ‘That’s Hanoi from the second floor!’ It turns out, the people of Hanoi—especially the older generation—may still be struggling to make a living, but they make sure to preserve the soul of old Hanoi, keeping it alive in their homes, in the peace and tranquility of the second floor. I feel a sense of nostalgia for a different Hanoi, particularly on the morning of the first day of the Lunar New Year, when the returning villagers leave Hanoi quiet and peaceful. The streets are calm, and the buildings sleep, evoking a lazy yet charming atmosphere. I feel a deep sense of love for Hanoi as it has endured through the years, bearing the burden of development, and I sometimes feel guilty for being part of that process. Yet, every time I visit my uncle’s house, after passing through the bright showcases of the first floor and through the busy voices of the vendors, I am reminded of an elegant, ancient Hanoi, with its old-fashioned objects and soft, friendly voices. I realize that Hanoi’s cultural depth might not be enough to assimilate the influx of newcomers, who now live in luxurious homes and drive expensive cars, holding important social positions. But from the second floor of the Old Quarter, the soul of Hanoi remains—calm, indifferent, elegant, and self-respecting. It’s a Hanoi I love. I wonder: Will future generations still try to preserve this Hanoi from the second floor?

The weather in Hanoi this season is strange. It can be blazing hot one moment, then suddenly a heavy rain comes pouring down in the late afternoon. The streets quickly flood, almost like rivers during the rainy season. Amidst this, people wade through the streets, struggling to make a living.

But after the rain passes, Hanoi feels uniquely special. It’s as though the rain has cleansed everything, making the world look brighter and fresher.

On Phan Dinh Phung Street, a green carpet appears, speckled with tiny ivory flowers, like a veil of tiny blossoms against the dark green backdrop. These are the last flowers of the crape myrtle tree. For Hanoi, this tree has long been a beloved feature, one that many visitors cherish even after just a brief stop in the city. A few rays of sunlight, still playing around, make the leaves and flowers even more vivid, lifting the dreariness caused by the heat of summer.

On Thanh Nien Street, the flamboyant flowers are still lingering, but they are no longer as vibrant as when they first bloomed in early summer. The petals have faded to a pale, paper-like color, dampened by the rain. The leaves have thickened, sometimes overshadowing the modest flowers, which seem to shy away. This year, the exam season has ended earlier than usual. These days, the high school seniors are free to run around, no longer burdened by exams, only waiting for their dreams to take shape. It seems that the flowers bloom sporadically, as if reluctant, waiting for something.

The rain clears the air and makes everything smell more distinct. Somewhere, from a small yard, the delicate fragrance of jasmine sneaks into the air, luring you in. And just as suddenly, the sweet scent of honeysuckle wafts by, captivating the senses.

As the streetlights flicker on at dusk, the gentle fragrance of flowers carried by the breeze from the West Lake calms the heart. It is late in the season, and the lotus flowers at the lake are fewer. Occasionally, a flower vendor carrying a bunch of pink lotus flowers mixed with bright sunflowers catches the eye. After the rain, the flower vendor’s smile is brighter, almost as if the flowers shyly smile back.

Hanoi bathes in the romantic glow of sunset, stirring emotions in an unexpected way. Sitting on a small wooden chair in a café overlooking the lake, it feels as though you’re taking in a living canvas of the city as it shifts from day to night. It’s like watching an artist paint vivid strokes across a cityscape fading into the evening. The noise of traffic, the rush of people eager to finish their tasks and go home, the clamor of crowded street markets—all fade away. I seem to forget the long day filled with tasks, consumed only by the beauty of Hanoi, admiring and loving it endlessly.

Hanoi, for all its chaos, continues to enchant. Enchanted by the gentle fragrance and beauty of the passing flowers, by the leaves falling during seasonal changes. And sometimes, with just a fleeting moment of longing, as the evening sun sets on a quiet street corner, you realize that loving Hanoi is something no one can deny within themselves.

Lê Huyền

Returning to Hanoi, each visit feels more imminent and frequent, yet it always stirs a deep yearning. As soon as the plane touches down, I sense the familiar, nostalgic scent of the Hanoi I once knew. The rich, intense fragrance of milk flowers, the restless nights that would quietly invade my thoughts, whisking me back to a childhood full of innocence and wonder. The late autumn afternoons, with waves lapping at the West Lake, trees soaring above, casting shadows over the vibrant streets. There are days I escape work, simply to indulge in the peace of the passing day, letting the rush of life slow down for just a moment. Hanoi feels slower in its tranquility. The flower carts under the morning sun glimmer like a dance that beckons the seasons. And at night, the cries of vendors echo through the streets, stirring memories of my mother's enduring hardships and my own growth, all shaped by the sweat and resilience of early mornings and late nights.

As I wrestle with the struggles of life, always far from home, each return deepens the longing. Every reunion brings a different feeling, shaped perhaps by the changing seasons.

Spring fills me with excitement and renewal, an infusion of new life and fresh energy, as cherry blossoms bloom in the crisp air, making Hanoi tender like a youthful girl.

Summer, blazing and full of energy, leaves behind a dynamic, vibrant Hanoi, and the lingering sweetness of Tràng Tiền ice cream stays with me long after.

Autumn reveals Hanoi as a dreamy maiden, lost in the golden hues of falling leaves, the sky clear and breezes cool, evoking the longing of someone far from home. The scent of freshly made rice cakes lingers on the streets, adding purity and freshness to Hanoi. All of this stirs up memories of loss, of unfinished chapters and quiet yearnings.

And as winter approaches, the first chill in the air makes me crave warmth—a tender embrace, a hand that offers comfort from a heart full of love. On cold winter nights, Hanoi becomes calm and silent, as if even the plants are asleep in the stillness of the season. The cold weather only enhances the rich flavors of hot food, each bite embedding itself in my memory, impossible to forget.

Walking side by side on those late autumn days, with a hint of winter in the air, my heart swells with longing, always yearning for more...

Hanoi, ever graceful, ever ancient, ever magnificent, continues to captivate me with its seasonal transitions. Hanoi holds my heart—my childhood Hanoi, full of passionate love and longing. I leave only to return, to fully embrace the magic of the place once again.

Nguyễn Thị Mai Diệp

The cold sets in. The northeastern winds carry a chill across the streets and trees of Hanoi. The city welcomes winter with a deep, sweet cold that feels so familiar. As time passes, I’ve traveled through many winters in different places, but none can erase the vivid memories of Hanoi’s winter from my heart.

I recall those winter mornings when mist wraps around the familiar streets. Somewhere, flower carts drift by, displaying their bright blooms in the cold, beautiful in their fragility. The roses, chrysanthemums, and daisies appear larger and more vibrant when winter arrives. Pure white daisies, delicate butterflies, and bright sunflowers seem to stretch toward the cold breeze...

By midday, the sun emerges from behind the mist, casting sparkling rays onto the pavement. Winter sun has a special charm—it isn’t as soft as spring, as bright as summer, or as sweet as autumn. Instead, it carries a quiet, melancholic beauty. It reminds me of the song 'Beloved Winters,' with lyrics about cherished winter memories, unfulfilled dreams, and the sweetness of love. Could the sun be hiding the distant memories of past winters?

As the day turns into afternoon, let’s explore Hanoi with some winter treats. The chewy, rich rice dumplings, “bánh trôi tàu,” made with a ginger-sweet syrup, only appear in winter. Boiled snails are available year-round, but they taste best in winter—plump and crispy, dipped in a tangy, spicy sauce with ginger, garlic, and chilies. In the small alleyways of Hanoi, you can smell fried dumplings, savory pastries, and cassava pudding, tempting you to stop for a snack.

Winter afternoons fade quickly into night as the temperature drops. The sun, once bright, now fades into a purple dusk, and the city lights flicker on, illuminating the hustle and bustle of daily life. It seems everyone is rushing home after a long day of work. Once home, we gather around the warm table, leaving all worries outside.

The winter nights in Hanoi are forever etched in my memory with the dim glow of streetlights. The streets are quiet, with only the rustling of leaves and the distant calls of street vendors. I remember as a child, hearing the call 'phá xaaaa...' echoing through the streets, and asking my mother for a few coins to buy roasted peanuts, sunflower seeds, or pumpkin seeds to share. Years later, working late into the night, the familiar call of 'Khúc ơ...' awakens my senses, and I step outside for a warm pastry. Amid the dark night, the glowing coals and sparks rising into the air create an almost magical scene. On days when I’m far from Hanoi, I miss the scent of roasted corn and sweet potatoes carried by the winter breeze.

At night, when the cold wind howls outside, I long for my mother’s quilt. In summer, she would air it in the sun, but when winter came, she would rush to get it ready, slipping it into a soft red floral cover for me. Now, every winter, I think of the warmth of that heavy quilt, its scent of sunshine and love.

And so, another winter passes, adding another layer to the memories of my life in Hanoi.

Vy Anh

I’ve known Hanoi since I was fourteen. It was a city at war, with trenches scattered across the streets. A Hanoi bustling with the steps of young militia members, armed and ready. The clanging sound of the tram still lingers in my memory. Back then, Hanoi was both strange and familiar, a place of charm and simplicity. At eighteen, as a lively student, I eagerly explored the city, discovering and falling in love with Hanoi without even realizing it...

On some cold winter mornings, I would cycle through the biting wind, the chill and drizzle soaking into my soul. The quiet streets felt sleepy, as the faint call of street vendors echoed through the narrow alleys, as though the city hadn’t yet woken up from a long night. The road to school was long and windy, and the dampness of the wet streets made my bicycle feel heavier, but I found joy in observing the city’s rhythm as its people began their day. Despite the cold, life moved quickly with the street vendors coming from the outskirts, their bicycle baskets filled with fresh flowers. I loved the sight of those bicycles, with their vibrant flowers, and the faces of the vendors, who, though cold and sweaty from rushing to bring their blooms to the city, brought with them a touch of freshness and purity to the streets.

In the autumn afternoons, I would wander down tree-lined streets, the fallen leaves crunching beneath my feet, with the soft chirping of birds overhead. Hanoi in autumn had a tranquil beauty, though I often felt a tinge of sadness from the farewells of those days. I loved quietly sitting by the lakeside, watching the trees cast their long shadows. Hanoi in the 1970s wasn’t very crowded, so it wasn’t hard to find a peaceful corner to myself. The winding alleys between streets always sparked my curiosity, inviting me to explore. The crispy sour starfruit, the fragrant white magnolia flowers, and the crisp, sweet waffles—small treasures I discovered during impromptu detours down unfamiliar alleys.

In Hanoi, I’ve found close, warm friendships. Their homes became my refuge, a place where I felt the warmth and sincerity I longed for as a young student far from home. I’ll never forget the little house filled with love at Nga Tu So, where I felt embraced by the kindness of my friend’s family. My friend’s mother cooked simple, delicious Hanoi dishes for me, taught me about the customs of the people of Hanoi, and made me feel less like an outsider. Even now, every time I return and pass through the area, which has changed so much, I feel a pang of nostalgia for that home that once was.

The bridges connecting the city to the outskirts have changed, with many modern, beautiful ones now in place. Yet, I still hold on to my love for the ancient Long Bien Bridge, which has stood for centuries. I remember the hustle and bustle of the early morning as workers hurried across, carrying goods. The train would rumble across the bridge, its metal rails screeching. I remember the noise of cars, bicycles, and pedestrians jostling as they crossed. Standing on Long Bien Bridge, gazing at the rushing red water of the Red River, breathing in the fresh air from the fields of corn and mustard flowers along the banks—it has become an irreplaceable ritual each time I return to Hanoi. However, as I get older, those visits back become fewer and fewer... though my heart remains full of memories and longing to return!

Hanoi today is much more crowded and modern, with tall buildings and grand construction projects everywhere, and the pace of life seems faster and more hectic. Instead of feeling excitement for the changes, each return brings a tinge of sadness and a yearning for the Hanoi of the past. Gone are the sounds of the trams and the bicycle bells, the quiet alleys, and the vendors whose calls felt like they belonged to a fairy tale. The rustling leaves by the lakeside, and the image of a poet lost in thought in the Old Quarter, are also memories of a bygone era.

Hanoi, I will return. In my heart, I will always carry the memories of the peaceful, loving Hanoi, the Hanoi that was simple and sincere, a Hanoi filled with the deep affection of its people, even though time and change may erase the days of old!

Minh Nguyet.

"In my wandering days,
I began to understand the soul of Hanoi’s people.
So simple, yet so moving.
So simple, yet it stays with me forever."

The heartfelt lyrics of composer Le Vinh speak for so many of us. Though I was not born in the thousand-year-old land of Hanoi, I am fortunate to have spent many years studying and working here. In that time, I’ve grown attached, become fond, and eventually fallen in love with Hanoi—becoming a daughter-in-law of the city.

Yes, Hanoi is noisy, dusty, congested, and expensive, and I don’t deny that. With over eight million people living in the capital, it's no surprise it feels crowded, but why do so many still flock here? Could it be that once you're here, it feels like home, a place you never want to leave?

Maybe that's it!

"When we stay, it’s just a place to live / When we leave, the land becomes part of our soul!"

*

Living in the heart of this bustling city, there are moments when we feel confined within the walls of our apartments, suffocated by fine dust and industrial emissions. But when I’m away for work, wandering through unfamiliar streets with no familiar faces, I yearn for Hanoi.

I remember a time when I was sitting on the seventy-fifth floor of the Landmark 81 building in Ho Chi Minh City, sipping an upscale coffee, gazing out at the sprawling city below. Suddenly, I felt the weight of nostalgia. I longed for the simple pleasure of dipping crispy donuts into a tangy, sweet, spicy soup, followed by a refreshing bowl of Khuc Bach dessert at my favorite corner café. And at night, despite listening to a full album of sappy love songs, I couldn’t sleep. I opened the balcony door and gazed out at the dimly lit alley, hoping to hear the familiar voice of a street vendor calling, "Who wants something? Who wants something?"

Spending half a month in the bustling streets of Saigon left me overwhelmed by the pace of life. Although I was invited to extravagant meals and parties, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. Perhaps it's because those gatherings were fleeting social events, handshakes, and quick hellos that are soon forgotten.

They weren’t like the older sister who always says, "Leave the tough tasks to me," or the one who lets the younger team members take breaks while watching videos of "The Most Dangerous Men in the World," laughing and joking as if we were all kids. And then there were the snack lovers, who would regularly travel from Lang Ha to Bat Dan just to eat six bowls of crab noodle soup. They were so familiar to the restaurant owner that each time they came in, she would automatically bring extra herbs and shrimp paste. The crab soup here is simply delicious! The broth is sweet but not greasy, tangy but refreshing. The crab meat is smooth and tender, and the noodles are small and chewy. No wonder we finished all six bowls in no time.

That’s Hanoi to me—simple but full of love. I cherish everything about it! The crowded streets, the dusty sidewalk cafés, the quiet calls of street vendors at night, and the friendly, familiar faces!

"Hanoi, oh Hanoi!
The longing in my heart, the love within me.
Time never fades.
Like the green waters of Ho Guom, endless and deep,
Like the fragrant milk flower scent, sweet and intoxicating.
I walk through countless roads,
Yet I still long to return to my homeland."

**

How fitting! My neighbor, after torturing me with songs like "Missing My Love" and "Building the Tomb of a Love," changed his tune and now wants to be a Hanoi local.

Hoa Diên Vỹ
* Lyrics from the poem "The Song of the Boat" by Che Lan Vien
** Lyrics from the song "Hanoi and I" by composer Le Vinh

I wasn’t born or raised in Hanoi, but I was fortunate enough to live, study, and work in the capital during the mid to late 1990s.

Hanoi, for a long time, was a sacred, mysterious place to me, full of charm, especially when I was a child, pressing my ear to a transistor radio, soaking in songs and music about the capital, or eagerly reading newspapers like Nhân Dân, Nhi Đồng, and Thiếu Niên Tiền Phong that my mother brought home. I would often get lost in the dim light of a kerosene lamp on weekends, reading until sleep overtook me. Later, when I came to Hanoi not for university but to work as a construction laborer with a group of workers from my village, I wasn’t sad. I thought of it as fate, so I eagerly looked forward to seeing for myself the "yellow cassia trees, red-leafed plane trees, and dark brown tiled roofs" and hoped to hear the "clanging sound of the electric tram" or lose myself in the fragrance of milk flowers at the end of autumn along Nguyen Du Street, or slowly ride against the sunlight on the "serene streets shaded by trees" in the summer heat. Often, I’d cycle down Phan Dinh Phung Street and Hoang Dieu Street, which were covered with golden, fallen seed leaves like a giant carpet after a gust of wind.

Through working in areas like Quang Ba and Nghi Tam, I began to discover Hanoi’s beauty. I would get lost in the deep green waters of West Lake or be captivated by the willow trees hanging over Truc Bach Lake. Sometimes, I would hear the distant rhythm of the Yên Thái drum from ancient times. I’d be mesmerized by every sunset, watching the sun slowly dip behind the rows of closely packed buildings, while savoring the sweet scent of lotus flowers from West Lake, as if afraid the fragrance would vanish in an instant.

At night, Hanoi is bustling. Under the bright streetlights, people and vehicles rush by as life hurries on. Amid the honking cars, the night calls of street vendors and the hum of the city fill the air. I feel compassion for the old bicycle wheels, creaking under the weight of a family’s livelihood.

"Hot noodles, sweet cakes, anyone?" or "Anyone want hot dumplings?", the sound of brooms sweeping the streets by the diligent sanitation workers, have become the unmistakable sounds of Hanoi every evening, accompanying the arrival of sleep. The distant calls fade, lost in the narrow alleys. Occasionally, you’ll hear "Bread!", "Dumplings!", followed by a hurried "Yes, coming!", leaving a deep feeling in your heart!

What I fear most about leaving Hanoi isn’t the material comforts, but the thought that I may never return to enjoy those things I once loved. However, I eventually had to leave for military service.

Hanoi welcomed me once again when I returned as a young soldier from Ba Vi for a ten-day assignment in Hoang Dieu. The sidewalk tea stalls, the breakfast and late-night eateries, the familiar calls of vendors—all felt just like before.

Hanoi greeted me not with fervor, but with a calm warmth under the spring sun. Perhaps Hanoi knew my stay would be too short? But I was lucky enough to see the Ban flowers blooming in the heart of the capital.

My third time living and working in Hanoi lasted three years. Though not long, it was enough for me to cherish the beautiful aspects of Hanoi. I had more opportunities to explore the city, and with each season, the capital revealed a unique beauty unlike anywhere else...

These memories of Hanoi are from over twenty years ago. Now, I only visit occasionally. Hanoi must have changed a lot, right?

Recently, as the whole country is caught up in the rush of numbers, Hanoi is quiet at night, with yellow streetlights faintly shining through the rain, and my heart aches with longing. One day soon, I hope Hanoi will be bustling like before...

Cậu Tú

Hanoi is not where I was born. It’s not where I grew up. It’s not where I’ve settled down or rooted my life. Hanoi exists in you and me.

If someone were to ask me: Do you love Hanoi? I’d nod without hesitation. Because Hanoi doesn’t belong to anyone alone. Hanoi is not just the thousand-year-old capital of culture. It’s not merely the thirty-six streets I’ve known through poetry, literature, and history.

Hanoi is not just famous for its pho or the refreshing cups of green tea on street corners. Hanoi is not something that can be captured with a quick glance. Hanoi, to me, is the land, the people, and values that will never fade with time.

I know a girl from Hanoi. Her family lives in the old quarter. She often tells me stories about the narrow streets intersecting like a chessboard, about her tiny home of just over ten square meters where seven people from three generations live together, and about the women chatting leisurely on the front steps. The streets, alleys, and courtyards of Hanoi have become part of her life.

There’s happiness, sadness, and hardship, yet every story from her mouth is told in a light, graceful tone. Perhaps, despite the passing of time, the lifestyle, the eating habits, and the way of living of the people of Hanoi may have changed, but they haven’t completely disappeared.

"Not as fragrant as jasmine,

Though not elegant, still a person from Tràng An."

Folk song

Once, she told me: Come to Hanoi in early winter. It’s amazing!

I laughed: Won’t you freeze to death?

I imagined the cold that would numb the body, with occasional drizzly rains that make you want to curl up in bed, warm under the blankets.

"No. Hanoi in winter is fascinating!" And from her, a daughter of the South, who knew little about winter, I learned about it in Hanoi.

Hanoi in winter doesn’t bite the skin like Sapa’s frosty mornings, nor is it as vibrant with flowers as Da Lat, where the mist swirls in the afternoon. It doesn’t carry the howling winds of the rice planting season that freeze the young rice sprouts.

Winter in Hanoi is unique… It’s strange because even in the cold, people still go out looking for a whiff of warmth with a steaming cup of green tea, savoring the street’s essence. It’s strange because despite the gloomy drizzle, people are still drawn to West Lake, to see the mist rising, to reminisce by Hoan Kiem Lake or indulge in the nostalgia of Old Quarter streets.

It’s strange because on a dry, sunny day, you can’t take your eyes off the "golden sunlight like honey," casting a radiant, mesmerizing glow. Hanoi, with its four distinct seasons, offers something different each time, unlike the South, where it’s always rainy or sunny, black or white. Yes, I promise, winter…

Once, she asked me: Do you know what defines Hanoi?

Beer, very French, and Uncle Ho’s Mausoleum?

Street vendors, because everyone already knows about these. I chuckled. A person who doesn’t have a passion for food like me would never notice such little things. Yet, street vendors have become an integral part of Hanoi’s culture.

Each season has its own offerings, and it’s common to see vendors carrying their baskets, weaving through streets and alleys. In the summer heat, there’s a bowl of tofu pudding, white and chilled, with a splash of dark syrup. In the chilly autumn, fresh green sticky rice wrapped in lotus leaves. In winter, roasted corn on the cob, warming you against the biting cold. And in spring, flower vendors glide through the streets with their colorful bouquets. Yes, I’ll join you…

When you live long enough, you begin to understand Hanoi. But it’s only when you love it, when you care for it, that you can overlook the flaws—the habits and imperfections that are part of every street—to see Hanoi’s true beauty, where even the smallest things become profoundly beautiful. You loved Hanoi, and you’ve passed that love on to me, without me realizing it, and now I carry it in my heart. Sometimes, I find myself whispering:

"Who’s going North? I’ll go with you, Visiting the land of the Lac Hong, Since the days of swords, conquering the land, The South still yearns for the land of Thang Long."

Huỳnh Văn Nghệ

I wouldn’t dare compare myself to poet Huỳnh Văn Nghệ. I’m just someone from the South who loves Hanoi. A Hanoi that exists in you and in me…

Quốc Việt

To be honest, I must admit that I have never had the chance to visit Hanoi, even though I’ve planned a few times to pack my bags and go. Yet, fate always kept me from experiencing the charm of the 36 streets and the people of Hanoi, and that dream remains unfulfilled until today!

Hanoi, in my mind, is a collection of images I’ve gathered from TV shows, newspapers, and books. Hanoi, in my mind, is also the essence captured in the songs I’ve memorized. The romantic ballads, the national anthems, and songs that stir the soul like Trịnh Công Sơn’s “Remembering Hanoi’s Autumn,” “Autumn Sonata of Hanoi,” Vũ Thanh’s “Hanoi’s Autumn,” Tran Quang Loc’s “Could it be you, Hanoi’s Autumn,” or Phu Quang’s musical adaptation of Pham Thi Ngoc Liên’s poem “Silent Hanoi Night.” Alongside these songs about Hanoi, there are also the sweet, soulful melodies about my hometown, Hue.

It’s quite peculiar that whenever I meet friends for gatherings, I always enjoy singing Hanoi’s songs, and my friends often compliment me, saying that my voice suits those songs. Perhaps it’s because I naturally have a rich, deep voice, and Hanoi, being the capital, has always captured my affection and admiration.

When I think of Hanoi, I picture the city in autumn with its cool weather, couples strolling hand in hand under the yellow trees and red maple leaves, walking beside each other with ancient houses on old streets, their brown tiled roofs fading in time.

When I reminisce about Hanoi, I picture the bustling street markets of the 36 old streets, crowded with people selling and buying, and I can hear the lyrics echoing, “It’s simple, but it stirs my heart, simple, but it leaves an unforgettable feeling!”

When I think of Hanoi, I imagine its moss-covered old streets, and the scent of jasmine and magnolia flowers quietly spreading in the night, making whispered words more enchanting.

When I think of Hanoi’s people, I immediately think of the graceful Hanoi girls, with their fair and smooth skin, their voices as sweet as honey, saying, “Even if it’s not as fragrant as jasmine, it’s still a girl of Tràng An.”

I imagine the warm welcomes from the street vendors, the sweet taste of green tea, their bright smiles showing off pearly white teeth, and the black scarves of the women, representing the enduring people of Hanoi who carry the memories of a thousand-year-old capital.

I have always dreamed of visiting Hanoi, and one day, I will leisurely stroll along streets like Hàng Đào, Hàng Lược, and Hàng Trống. I will cycle around West Lake, feeling the soft breeze from the lake and letting it play with my hair. I may never hear the “clang of the morning train heading to Đống Đa and Cầu Giấy,” but I’m certain that with my deep love for Hanoi, I will find a moment, even if just in a dream, that I’ll cherish forever.

My dream of stepping foot in Hanoi stems from reading Thạch Lam’s famous “Hanoi’s 36 Streets.”

I am captivated by the unique gifts of Hanoi’s streets, and through the emotional and beautiful writing of Thạch Lam, I long to experience Hanoi’s famous delicacy, Làng Vòng’s rice cakes. I imagine how the plump, round grains of rice, given by the earth, are skillfully transformed by the villagers into a treat that’s beloved both in Vietnam and abroad. It’s a humble yet elegant delicacy, simple yet pure, with delicate colors and flavors. The soft texture of the bánh cốm mirrors the image of the “graceful girl selling cốm, neatly dressed, with her signature bamboo pole curved like a dragon boat” (as described in Thạch Lam’s “Hanoi’s 36 Streets”). I will search for Hanoi’s famous pho shops that serve the authentic taste of “original Hanoi pho,” which the people of Hanoi have brought to Hue, making it a popular dish here alongside Hue’s own famous beef noodle soup. And although I know it’s difficult to find the young tea seller named Dần, with her brown áo tứ thân and round headscarf, smoking a cigarette and holding a warm cup of tea, as described by Thạch Lam, I will search with determination to uncover the flavors and characteristics that Thạch Lam highlighted in his portrayal of Hanoi, the timeless essence of the thousand-year-old Thăng Long city.

I truly believe that the people of Hanoi, who live and grow up in the Bắc Kì region, are deeply aware of their cultural identity and are working to elevate it, bringing Hanoi’s elegance to the world, embodying the idea of integration without losing their unique heritage.

Someone once told me, “If you want to experience fate, you must first create it yourself.” Perhaps now is the time for me to set aside my busy life and answer the call of the train, just this once. I will write my own destiny with the people of Hanoi, knowing that they are waiting for me to step onto this sacred and elegant land!

Trang Thuỳ

I love Hanoi - a love so pure and passionate, much like the first love, because I've been deeply connected with Hanoi through my days working as a laborer in the alley of Cống Trắng, Khâm Thiên street, and later throughout my university years filled with dreams and aspirations, a time where I lived fully, truly, as myself.

I remember the nights in Hanoi with such nostalgia. The city falls into a peaceful slumber, quiet after a hectic day. Faint yellow streetlights spill out from the windows of high-rise buildings. Tall street lamps cast a dim, shadowy light through the night fog, standing still like loyal, devoted sentries. The streets are empty, stretching endlessly. Occasionally, the distant sound of a lone motorcycle engine pierces the silence, only to fade away into the stillness. The calls of the street vendors still echo, laden with worry and unease. Their calls drag on, tired and broken, unable to wake the rickshaw drivers who sleep peacefully, legs crossed on their bikes, hats covering their faces, unaware of the mosquitoes, the cold night, or the dew. The hustle and bustle of the day finally quiets down, settling into the lives of the people, each with their own stories, struggles, and dreams. Occasionally, you can spot a contented smile as someone drifts into a peaceful sleep. The sound of a broom sweeping the pavement gently echoes through the night... swish... swish... swish... so patient and relentless. When the city sleeps, that's when the street cleaners begin their work. I can't help but feel a deep sense of sympathy for the hardworking lives of the poor laborers, just like my sister and my mother who toil tirelessly in our hometown.

I'll never forget the image of Hanoi nights. It’s when I would put aside my studies and daily struggles to spend time with the orphans in Birla Village, teaching them lessons, songs, and simply playing. These children, full of insecurities, would shy away, hard to approach or to guide, but in time, they grew fond of us. The children from Mỹ Đức, Hà Tây who lived with Uncle Quang in Quan Hoa Village, Cầu Giấy were so unfamiliar with numbers and letters that the only time they encountered them was when calculating the money they earned and spent. The children of poor or policy families from the Nghĩa Tân community and beyond, by 8 PM, would yawn uncontrollably, struggling to keep their eyes open during lessons because they were so exhausted from the day's work, balancing school and their jobs. The blind children from Nguyễn Đình Chiểu Street silently strove to affirm themselves, eager to learn to read and write, and to develop their skills. We spent time with them, organizing lively Mid-Autumn festivals at Bách Thảo Park, the Air Force Museum, Thủ Lệ Park, and Gò Đống Đa... All these children seemed to have found common ground, a shared language of hardship and deprived childhoods.

I deeply admire and respect the youth of Hanoi, young people with ideals, dreams, and ambitions. Many of my friends, those I met at the Young Volunteer Club of Vietnam Students' Newspaper, are the children of wealthy families, always dressed in designer clothes, riding their own motorbikes, and carrying mobile phones, yet they still join us in cleaning up Đống Đa Park, Tuổi Trẻ Park, Bách Thảo Park, and the Ngọc Hồi Martyrs' Cemetery... They willingly roll up their sleeves, picking up trash with their bare hands, enduring the pain of cuts and scraps of metal. They are also ready to wade into the dark water of the lake to collect garbage, plant trees, and more. Even at night, they eagerly work with disadvantaged children, offering their knowledge, love, and warmth. Late into the night, they wander around Hanoi Station, Hoan Kiem Lake, Đồng Xuân Market, Long Biên Bridge... meeting with the street children, listening to their stories, helping them learn, and sometimes even sleeping alongside them under the bridge or in dirty corner shops, without blankets, without comfort, waking up with swollen limbs and faces from mosquito bites. Yet, they still smile, still enthusiastic to do their volunteer work. When they experience the life of the poor, they realize how meaningful their lives are, and they continue to organize events to collect books, clothes, and school supplies for students in Tuyên Quang, and to help flood victims in Thừa Thiên Huế and Bình Thuận. They go door to door, distribute flyers, abandon their own work to receive donations, rushing to collect items from families who can't bring them in person. It’s all so busy, so tiring, yet so fulfilling, especially when packing and sending off the donations. We also often gather to donate blood at the Hematology and Blood Transfusion Institute at Bạch Mai Hospital. Those days were truly meaningful. The youth of Hanoi are vibrant, passionate, and incredibly lovable.

Although I wasn't born and raised in Hanoi, I have spent nearly ten years living, working, and studying in this beloved city. Those years were enough for me to understand that no matter how tough or competitive life may get, in the end, what remains is the love between people, the moments of living a life full of purpose.

Tomorrow, I will leave Hanoi, and I feel like crying out loud, like a child about to leave home. All the cherished memories, the familiar sights, and the beloved faces suddenly feel distant and begin to fade into my memory. Time moves on silently. We are each beginning to build our own new lives with a pile of work ahead. All that remains are the memories—memories that will stay with me forever.

HOÀNG TRỌNG MUÔN