Top 7 Best Essays About West Lake

Here golden, there black

Here are the heavenly flowers, and there is the lotus of West Lake

For a long time, the beauty and fame of the lotus at West Lake have been embedded in folk sayings, folk songs, and poetry. The lotus flowers, which grow in the rich, muddy soil of the legendary West Lake, are larger, their buds and fragrance stronger and more intense than those grown elsewhere. While the Mekong Delta has the famous Thap Muoi lotus, when it comes to lotus, people immediately think of Hanoi, the capital, where the vast West Lake is covered in lotus flowers.

My house is right next to the lake, just 15-20 meters from the lotus garden. Therefore, the lotus plants and the fragrant flowers that emerge from the stinky, muddy soil have become very familiar to me. My childhood memories, like those of other children born in this area, are filled with the sweet fragrance of lotus. When the first flowers bloom at the start of the season, signaling the arrival of summer, we would all rush to swim in the lake and secretly pick lotus flowers. Over the years, as we grew up, we stopped swimming and picking flowers, but the joy of sitting by the lake under the moonlight, enjoying the scent of the flowers, remained unchanged.

The elderly, in their refined way, would sit and admire the moon, sipping tea infused with the scent of lotus from West Lake. Nearly every home in Quang Ba village, West Lake, has some lotus tea to serve guests during holidays, weddings, and special occasions. The tea is made meticulously by local artisans, making it very precious, rare to buy, and mostly given as gifts. It is said that the famous musician Trinh Cong Son once begged a local artisan to sell him 2kg of West Lake lotus tea, which he took south to serve his friends. Out of respect and admiration for the artist, the artisan sold it to him at a reduced price of 2 million VND per kg. While the price might surprise you, the process and care of making this tea truly justify its value. To make the tea, one must choose large flowers, freshly bloomed, and harvest them before sunrise so the fragrance doesn't diminish. It takes 1,000-1,500 flowers to make just 1kg of tea. After 6-7 rounds of infusing, drying, and ensuring the purity of the tea, one can truly appreciate the meticulousness of the process.

As the years have passed, urbanization has sped up, and the rapid rise in land prices has started to impact the lotus garden of West Lake. The areas along the lake have gradually been encroached upon as residents fill in the lakeside to expand their property. Despite the lotus plant’s rapid growth, it can't keep up with the speed of the encroachment. Furthermore, the market economy has also contributed to the decline of the West Lake lotus, as some owners have leased parts of the lake to build fish ponds, which are detrimental to the lotus. Several articles have written about the decline of the lotus at West Lake, but no matter how much is said, what is lost is hard to recover.

Although the lotus fields are not gone yet, each morning, the flowers are still harvested and used to make lotus tea or sold to vendors at the early morning Quang Ba flower market. Unfortunately, the sad truth is that the once-famous lotus fields will soon become a thing of the past, and future generations will never experience the beauty of the West Lake lotus or its fragrant scent in this bustling city.

Author: Le Thi Hoai Anh

Sitting by a shabby little café in the Old Quarter, I suddenly recall a new poem by Viet Phuong: “A tiny piece of West Lake, yet vast and endless, a desolate old street still cradles a lonesome tree...” I find this verse charming because it seems to express what I’ve been feeling but couldn’t quite say, lingering inside me, and then, as if released, I feel a lightness. After sitting for a while and observing, all I see is the crowd of people and traffic. The noise of the city pushes away my loneliness, but somehow, other forms of loneliness creep in. It’s strange, this feeling, which only makes sense when you’re in the Old Quarter.

It turns out, my love for the Old Quarter is merely because I’m a resident of Hanoi; it’s an obligatory affection, like I have to love it—how could I not? Without love, I wouldn’t be a true Hanoian. I remember a friend from Cau Go Street, where three brothers lived together with their elderly mother. Each family had a bed separated by soft curtains, with a partition for the elderly mother. I can’t imagine how they lived like that. Later, the house was renovated, and each family got a separate room. I heard the process of renovation was burdensome. I didn’t want to listen anymore. It was all rumors, really, but there were many similar families. If I’m to love the place just to appear fashionable, I’d rather not. I moved to the outskirts a year ago; life is so much more exciting there!

Then, a woman arrived with her young child, dressed up and fragrant with perfume, disrupting the quiet mood. She ordered a coffee and scolded the child for not swallowing the sticky rice quickly enough. That was the last straw for me. The charm of the old quarter seemed to slip away.

So it is—the core of the Old Quarter has become a blend of old and new, degraded over time. I don’t know if I’m stepping on someone’s toes with these words, but I speak what I feel. Streets like Hang Bac, Hang Thiec, Hang Chieu, and Hang Dong still hold a hint of old charm, hidden in the folds of time. You can see it in the old, quiet folks, who speak less and reflect more, and in the hands of artisans who craft items for dignitaries. For me, seeing these elders with their ancient shapes makes me understand the true essence of the Old Quarter. It’s the deep connection to time that defines it—the simple, humble life reflected in their worn faces and skilled hands. A love for the craft lingers in the air. With all the advancements in science and society, you can sense a tinge of regret in their eyes. But it’s all part of the process. Everything will fade into memory. Yet, I still dislike the pretense, the imitation, and the display of wealth. The Old Quarter today feels like a “fake antique.” The people here claim to live in the Old Quarter as if the essence of a thousand years of civilization has soaked into their being. But looking around, I don’t see beauty, culture, or the grace I expected. Still, people praise it, just following the crowd. Let them praise, if they must. I’ll just try to preserve the old houses and, in my opinion, we shouldn’t let them fall into further ruin. “Old houses with moss-covered walls, the rough texture... slowly turning into ruins... standing silently as if abandoned, unable to rebuild, their roofs leaning...” That’s how I sympathize with Viet Phuong.

After leaving the café, I walked to West Lake. The small piece of West Lake that Viet Phuong mentioned. Here, the wind blows, clearing away the noise and dust of the city. The breeze and waves on the lake are strong, wide and endless, as if the sky itself is limitless. Coming out to nature, I feel more confident, free from the gaze of others. Children walk hand in hand, they look beautiful. The path around the lake is so quiet. I hope this peaceful, pristine emptiness, with the scent of grass and the musty lake water, will remain undisturbed by the intrusive cafés. The newly planted trees will soon spread their branches to form shade, and this space will again become a place for dreams and love, just like when I walked hand in hand with someone on this very street, whispering the first words of love.

What impresses me most are the current “Phung Quans.” They are freer than Phung Quan of old. I thank the “tiny piece of West Lake” for easing his material life during tough years. Along the lake’s edge, I see fishing rods casting into the water. I find the tranquility of ancient Thang Long here. I can almost hear the lines of the poem: “Traces of old carriages and the soul of the autumn grass / The old tower and the sunset’s shadow, blending with today’s busy city.”

I can faintly see girls in modest, delicate clothes from the silk villages, as if I were gazing at a lotus pond back home, with the soft green of lotus leaves gently shading the sun. I see my homeland, with its fields and river. Just a few steps, and I feel as if I’ve stepped into another world—a world of pure, simple old times, a world where the soul is kind and sincere. The connection between humanity and nature is deep and unbreakable.

Then, the heat of the Old Quarter was relieved by the rain. Surely, the people of the Old Quarter, and the inner city, feel less suffocated now. The wind mixes with the fresh air in a way no air conditioner can match. Millions of people enjoy the coolness, with West Lake contributing its part. I stand and watch the lake in the rain, imagining a tunnel running through its waters. Oh, West Lake is sacred, and I hope any touch upon it is treated with respect for our ancestors’ history. Any action around it should be done cautiously.

I take shelter in the octagonal house, hearing the chirping of birds from Chu Van An School. This school is named after a great teacher who made a courageous stand for righteousness, earning the lasting respect of future generations. That’s how Thang Long’s scholars are. This country will continue to have people like this teacher, even in times of crisis.

Vinh Anh

Returning to Hanoi feels more and more frequent, but each time, it still stirs something inside me. The moment the plane lands, I can already smell the nostalgic scent of the city I once knew. Hanoi, my old Hanoi, filled with the scent of sweet-smelling flowers on sleepless nights, gently drifting into my soul, taking me back to my childhood, to the days of innocence and wide-eyed wonder. In the late autumn, West Lake ripples with gentle waves, and the tall trees cast their shade over the youthful streets. There are days when I escape school and work, indulging in moments of peace, observing the calm flow of time. In Hanoi, time slows down, bringing a sense of serenity to my otherwise hectic life. Early morning flower vendors in the sun glimmer like dancers ushering in the season, while the nighttime cries of street vendors remind me of the hardships mothers face and the perseverance that shaped me, carrying the weight of life's struggles.

As I ponder over life's many burdens, especially as I navigate the challenges of making a living far from home, each return to Hanoi feels more poignant than the last. Each visit brings a new emotion, a fresh experience, perhaps influenced by the changing seasons.

Spring fills me with restlessness, with a renewed sense of vitality, as new buds burst forth. The pink and peach blossoms proudly display their beauty in the cool weather, making Hanoi feel as gentle and charming as a young woman in her prime.

Summer’s blazing heat transforms Hanoi into a city full of energy and alertness, where the sweet taste of Trang Tien ice cream lingers on, unforgettable.

Autumn, on the other hand, makes Hanoi feel like a dreamy young woman, lost in the golden hues of falling leaves. The cool breeze stirs up memories, while the fresh scent of green sticky rice fills the air, giving the city a pure, untainted charm. Everything evokes nostalgia—the sense of longing for lost time and the pain of unfinished business.

And then winter arrives... the first cold winds stir within me a longing for warmth, for the embrace of someone special, for a hand to hold, offering comfort in the cold. On winter nights, Hanoi seems peaceful, even silent, and I can almost hear the soft breath of nature as it sleeps through the cold. The chill of early winter makes every hot meal even more comforting, embedding the rich flavors of Hanoi’s cuisine deep in my memory, never to fade.

Walking together on those late autumn days, with a hint of winter in the air, my heart is filled with yearning and unspoken wishes...

I return to Hanoi, still graceful, still ancient, still proud, forever captivating me with its seasonal transitions. Hanoi gives me a passion that stirs my soul—my childhood Hanoi, filled with love and memories. Leaving only to return, to truly feel the magic of coming back.

Nguyen Thi Mai Diep

The streets have taken on the hue of midday, and the rain has just stopped. The golden shower trees are still spreading their brilliant yellow flowers, while the royal poinciana trees along Co Ngu street shake off the rain, rustling softly as they warm up in the breeze and the sunlight piercing through the remnants of the rain. Suddenly, a long, wide streak appears across the surface of West Lake, forming a semi-circle with an array of colors: orange, red, yellow, blue, green, indigo, and violet. A rainbow... yes, it’s a rainbow.

Sitting in a café along Co Ngu street, gazing out over West Lake, I watch through the window, the inside and outside worlds blending together. My cup of coffee continues to drip slowly, steadily, like the raindrops earlier that landed on the glass, forming and then breaking apart. It comes, it goes, without announcement, without farewell. Some things can never be named, yet they linger in the mind, impossible to forget.

Rain always brings memories, sometimes bittersweet, but never to the point of despair. Somewhere, there are people who choose solitude, who savor the quiet of a coffee cup, letting their soul wander to an instrumental tune. Could it be that this way, they are able to feel the bitterness in the taste of coffee, or perhaps they get lost in the solitary walk, carried away by the emotions of being alone with themselves? The deeper one’s reflection, the lonelier they seem to become. But certainly, loneliness and sorrow teach us to love and to live more beautifully.

I once saw a rainbow after the rain, when I was just a boy of six or seven, living with my grandparents in a village near Hai Phong, by the Luoc River. Back then, I didn’t know it was a rainbow; I only knew it as a long, wide streak of colors across the sky, stretching over the fields as I followed my grandmother while she tended the rice. I couldn’t name all those colors, I was too young.

My grandmother told me, 'That’s a rainbow, my child.' I smiled with delight. She continued, 'If you send a wish up there, the rainbow will make it come true when you grow up.' I believed her words. In my wish, I dreamed of building her a beautiful house on the rainbow. She laughed and scolded me gently, 'Don’t be silly, when you grow up, I won’t be around to live in your house.' Yet, her laughter was full of happiness, and her words, though naive, filled my heart with joy. My childhood was filled with the colorful illusion of the rainbow and the image of my grandmother, who I remember fondly among the rice stubble, bathed in the warm, fragrant sunlight, with the scent of wet straw after the rain.

The rainbow bridges the gap between dreams and the present. Life would be dull without dreams, without the belief in them. I’ve always thought and believed this during my childhood. The rainbow is beautiful and vibrant, yet untouchable. It’s both elusive and real, a natural phenomenon that appears and vanishes in the air, leaving behind dreams for children to chase. Even a half-circle shape brings happiness.

This afternoon, when I returned to the edge of the village, my grandmother was gone… The village path seemed emptier. I remembered the scent of betel leaves she used to chew, the smell of lime she rubbed into them. The black headscarf she always wore, and the brown shirt that had worn thin over the years, but every spring, she would take it out and refresh the dye. For all those years, she saved everything to care for her children and grandchildren, never buying anything for herself. I still remember how she lovingly scolded me, '… Are your clothes fitting well? Is the food tasty?'

I still remember her frail figure carrying bundles of rice, bearing the weight of the spring harvest on her shoulders. She would carry the evening sun in her hands, under the fading light. Spring arrived in my homeland, vast over the fields, beside my grandmother’s hammock where she used to lull me to sleep. Spring awakens both love and nostalgia in me. I feel Spring’s gentle stir, nestled in my heart, mingling with the sounds of distant days. My heart feels heavy, my eyes moist with longing for my grandmother… it’s been so long since she’s been gone... She carried my childhood’s dreams of the rainbow.

In a few days, I’ll leave Hanoi, not knowing when I’ll return. I miss Hanoi even when it rains, when the faint sun falls silently, when the rain stops and the breeze sweeps away the street dust. It seems that as people grow older, they see fewer rainbows, perhaps because they no longer dream or entertain the whimsical thoughts of life’s laughter and tears, gathering the quiet reflections from afar, even when their hearts are filled with sorrow. As we grow older, the fairy tales of our youth seem to lose their magic. Suddenly, I long to sing aloud in the world, not to wish for small things, because it’s like a raindrop searching for the sun. The strong gust of wind sweeps past, the water droplets break apart, shimmering and radiant, only to vanish, leaving an empty space, a void, a lingering sense of nostalgia.

Behind the rain, there might be a rainbow, beautiful yet untouchable. The last leaf of the season still wants to fall slowly, heavy with the desire to hold onto time, embarking on its long journey to the earth.

Therefore, never stop loving this life… because if there are no rainbows in this world, fairy tales will die with the rain, and the untitled moments may still be a part of this life. We yearn to laugh like children, to be carefree, to place our dreams like them, these angels of life full of love…

Le Minh

I return to Hanoi after many days away, following a long journey. The plane touches down at Noi Bai airport on a winter morning, with the fog still thick in the air, drifting here and there in a soft haze...

The deep green patches of farmland, the wide swathes of fog slowly clearing, slowly begin to appear... Gently winding along, there is the Red River, once etched into my memories, meandering through my childhood...

Hanoi, as I return, is less rainy and dappled with only a little sun. It has already entered the final days of the year. My steps seem to sink deeper into the Hanoi of old... Around me, people hurry on, as if someone is urging them to move faster in the wind...

I stand lost at the crossroads, my heart heavy with nostalgia for the old seasons of memory.

Hanoi has long entered winter, with the cold firmly settling in. I watch the lonely willows drooping quietly by West Lake, and something bittersweet stirs within me...

The autumn I once knew is gone; no longer can I dream in its colors, no longer can I see the golden leaves, no longer can I watch the delicate dragonflies carry sunlight, fluttering in pairs over the green waves of West Lake, their wings glistening in the afternoon sun. The autumn no longer sings its lullabies, as the evening sun kisses the water’s surface...

The scent of milk flowers fills the air, drifting on the wind, and the faint fragrance of yellow orchids spreads along the long streets, wafting into my heart each evening...

Even when the sun burns bright and hot, at times making the air heavy, or when it seems to make autumn feel painful, the SUNSET in autumn is always the most beautiful, the most captivating of all.

Anyone who has ever watched the sunset over West Lake in autumn can never forget it. Not only does it offer a fresh breath of air, but West Lake also serves as a gathering place, a place people come to like a quiet instinct. West Lake is beautiful because it holds within it the joy and sorrow of those who love it; it is, as some have said, “the green lung” of Hanoi.

I have always loved watching the sun set and gradually dip below the horizon. In those moments, the world darkens in the gentle passage of time... The hues of red, yellow, and orange shift to deep crimson, and finally, to a deep purple...

This is the SUNSET in the evening glow... it’s the final effort of the sun before the day ends.

In the last moments of the sun before it sets, it is at its most brilliant and enchanting, always captivating the heart...

And only by the lake or the sea can the sunset truly reveal all of its glory... The clear surface of West Lake becomes like a mirror, reflecting the stunning, vibrant colors more brilliantly than ever, shining through the surrounding space... At that moment, the sun will blaze one last time before slowly fading away...

Perhaps the two most beautiful moments of West Lake in a day are dawn and sunset.

In any circumstance, in any space, one can still feel its beauty... These emotions quietly seep deep into our hearts and souls, making us realize the value of life through one thing. The most beautiful moments are not always those that stretch out before us or last forever, but rather, those that remain in the fleeting moment...

The most beautiful moment of the sun in its final effort at the close of the day makes us want to live slower, to feel every bit of it.

SUNSET is the sign of the permanent closure of a day passing... Though undeniably beautiful, it always leaves behind a deep emotional resonance...

How many more sunsets will there be to witness?!

For with each day that passes, life loses a bit more... Though we know that tomorrow’s sunset will return, the time of a human life does not. Live fully... Feel fully, while you still can!

Today, I return to West Lake on a day with little sun, the houses lining the shore shrouded in a thin mist, the boats gently drifting by... The clouds are vague, like dreams from days gone by, now part of fairy tales. Only the water of West Lake is real, and the sunset over West Lake is real.

Essay by: Le Minh

Hanoi’s charm for travelers from all corners of the world likely lies in its lakes, reflecting the passage of time, steeped in myths and legends, holding the essence of millennia of Thang Long’s ancient history. West Lake, veiled in mist during the lotus bloom, feels like a lost celestial realm, captivating anyone who steps into this mystical world.

The city awakens in the summer morning, golden sunlight flooding the streets, the air tinged with the red of nostalgic school days and the purple of poetic memories... And for a moment, everything softens into a haze, as the gaze follows the flower baskets carried by brown-clad vendors...

The pink lotus blooms shyly, hidden among the green leaves, releasing a gentle, pure fragrance that beckons the wanderer to follow with each step...

And the lotus—spanning across the entire lake in an enchanting, endless sea—feels boundless, intoxicating me, as though I’m drifting through a dream, transported back hundreds of years to join the scholars and poets of the Tao Dan society, admiring the beauty of West Lake.

Gliding gently on a small boat across the lake, I dare not disturb the water, fearing the slightest sound will shatter the illusion, as if I were in a divine paradise.

The lotus leaves, round and jade-like, seem to highlight the proud pink buds stretching toward the sky, their fragrance so pure, distilled from the essence of heaven and earth. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if it’s an illusion—could that be a young maiden with rosy cheeks, glancing with a coy smile, hidden among the lotus blooms? Perhaps the Lady of Willow Trees, from the West Lake legend, has descended to join the mortal world in admiring the lotus flowers?

I had the privilege of meeting Quang Phung, a photographer who has preserved Hanoi’s history through his lens. He shared with me that for nearly half a century, he’s visited West Lake every lotus season, capturing its beauty. He has extensive photo collections of the lotus-picking process, especially the making of a rare and prized tea—one of Thang Long’s finest, created exclusively from the lotus of West Lake. The intricate, delicate process of making this tea requires great skill and precision—not just anyone can master it.

The lotus is harvested in the morning mist, with each petal gently plucked to reveal the golden pistils. A delicate grain, the size of a rice kernel, is gently extracted from the center of the flower, its fragrance infused into the tea, creating the famous West Lake lotus tea...

And that’s just the beginning... I had the chance to taste this renowned tea, and the memory of the ethereal sensation, as the lotus fragrance seeped into every cell of my being, lingers with me to this day.

I find myself wondering—did West Lake once have yellow lotus flowers, the kind that inspired the beautiful Kim Liên Pagoda, a place so enchanting it feels like a fairy tale? Or was this the very place tied to the ancient legend of the golden buffalo, with the sage monk Không Lộ, whose wisdom still inspires reverence after a thousand years?

Strangely, every ancient pagoda around West Lake faces the lotus-filled waters, and every morning, the bells ring out, their sound echoing through the silence, as if calling the ancient voices of sages, ushering in a new day of peace and compassion for the world.

As I return to the city, walking beneath the ancient trees, where time flows through past, present, and future, I hold a bouquet of lotus flowers. Their fragrance dances with the breeze, swirling through the cool mist, tinged with pale purple...

Though my southern homeland has lotus flowers year-round, I still bring these West Lake lotuses back with me. Now, as I sit, admiring the flowers, I feel the calm of their pink buds, like a moment of serenity, casting away worldly concerns and purifying the soul.

The lotus of West Lake seems like my personal retreat into meditation.

Hoài Hương

Each day begins with an excited anticipation, as if it were a ritual. Early in the morning, when the thin mist stirs, I rush to grab my bicycle and join the flow of cars, like a stream racing towards the fragrant lotus scent of West Lake and the flower villages of Quang An, Quang Ba... The air is fresh, and the intoxicating fragrance around the lake makes it irresistible to the cycling enthusiasts who circle its shores. For those visiting West Lake, there's always a sense of exhilaration mixed with nostalgia, as if reconnecting with a more dreamy version of oneself. First, a deep breath of fresh air fills the lungs, and then a soothing enjoyment of the expansive atmosphere unique to the lakeside. Stand still, let the gentle southern breeze play across the body, or delight in the crisp winter air beside the lake.

And then, there’s the serene landscape of West Lake, often referred to as the sea of Hanoi. When overwhelmed by the suffocating high-rise buildings lined up like stacked bricks with the constant hum of air conditioning on the polluted streets, you are suddenly met with an open, expansive view of sky, clouds, and water stretching endlessly.

West Lake’s distinct charm lies in the delicate mist that hovers above the water, lingering like smoke, creating a dreamlike and ethereal atmosphere. The lake is vast, with waves that ripple in diamond-shaped patterns across the surface, glinting in the sunlight, almost as if winking mischievously. During the monsoon season, the lake stirs with waves, not the violent crash of the ocean, but the soft, gentle waves that roll from afar and break upon the shore in a playful chase. The best moments are watching the sunrise and sunset over the lake. The sun rises, red as a giant copper disk, peeking above the rooftops, casting its glow on the water as sports boats glide by, their movements quick and determined, signaling the start of a new day full of promises and dreams. At sunset, the multicolored clouds glow in the golden light, casting a warm, peaceful glow on the water, as the breeze seems to slow, syncing with the tranquil mood of the evening. Anyone who witnesses either the sunrise or sunset by the lake is struck with awe, immediately reaching for their smartphones to capture the magical moment. But it is at night, under the full moon, that West Lake truly reveals its poetic and dreamy allure. The surface of the water turns to liquid gold, and the moon high above reflects in its calm waters, both glowing with a blueish hue. West Lake’s moon has always been an endless source of inspiration for poets. For example, Nguyen Mong Tuan wrote: 'A sky sparkling with lapis lazuli/ Nine layers of gold and jade adorn the lake’s surface', while Phung Khac Hoan captured its otherworldly charm in a line: 'The bell rings early, the moonlight only reflects one shadow'. The poet Nguyen Cong Tru, with his image of wine and moon: 'Sadness lingers in the calm moonlight, a soft breeze whispers in the dusk, and somewhere, a bell tolls'. Tản Đà's words evoke the lake’s solitude: 'West Lake at dusk, leaves falling/ The bright moonlight trails behind a figure, a fragment of love shared in the water/ A soulmate from a distant sky'.

Pedaling slowly along Thanh Nien Street, one of the most beautiful roads in Hanoi, where one side hugs the shores of Truc Bach Lake and the other stretches along West Lake. At the start of this road is the Trấn Quốc Pagoda, standing like a lotus floating on the water. On the opposite end is Quán Thánh Pagoda, with its tall gates resembling candle-like columns and the meditative bronze statue that stands watch. Walking along Thanh Nien Street, the air is always perfumed with the fragrance of ngoc lan (ylang-ylang) and hoang lan (wild lan) flowers, a delicate and noble aroma. Alongside, Quán Gió is a popular rest stop for travelers to pause and enjoy crispy fried shrimp cakes. 'Golden fried batter/ Wrapped with red shrimp/ We’ll meet at Quán Gió/ Enjoy the crispy shrimp cakes'. The shrimp from West Lake is slightly larger than a chopstick, yet firm and bright red, curling gracefully inside a golden fried batter, creating a visual treat. There's also four-colored ice cream, soft-serve cones… simple snacks that reflect the refined elegance of Hanoi. The place is more than just a snack bar; it's a resting point to enjoy the view. Nearby, swans glide across the water while young couples stroll together. Across the lake lies Phu Tay Ho, a busy temple shaded by ancient trees. Phu Tay Ho is famous for its delicious noodle soup with snails, a dish with a perfect balance of sour, spicy, salty, sweet, and rich, with a hint of vinegar that enhances the flavor. 'Crunchy, chewy, plump snails/ Fried tofu golden and crisp/ On a chilly day/ The smell of vinegar fills the air'. In summer, the noodle soup is refreshing; in winter, it’s warm and comforting. On the 15th day of each month, people flock here in large numbers, and the pace of life slows down amidst the haze of incense. Hidden among the trees, old pagodas with curved rooftops and dragon phoenix decorations evoke the feeling of ancient royal capitals.

Visiting West Lake is like meeting a true soulmate, and the heart sings: 'Whenever you’re in pain, come to me…'. West Lake listens, feeling every word, sharing the joys and sorrows, and offering sincere companionship. Especially on summer evenings, when the branches of the phoenix flowers dangle over the water or in the quiet autumn nights, walking under the yellow streetlights, simply strolling along the edge of the lake, all worries and troubles fade away, and peace returns to the soul.

Lực Chung Tiến