There is a city that welcomes you not with order, but with a loud embrace full of sounds, smells, and intertwined movements. Hanoi is like that: it never reveals itself in silence. The first impression is a symphony of honking motorbikes, constant chatter in narrow alleys, the smell of broth boiling on gas stoves along the sidewalks, and the thin smoke of nighttime barbecues rising among the trees. It’s not chaos; it’s life—a fast-flowing life, woven with ancient gestures, as if time here isn’t linear but circular.
Wandering Through the Old Quarter
Walking through the Old Quarter, where streets are named after the goods once sold there — Silk Street, Iron Street, Hat Street — you feel like moving inside a living map. This neighborhood, over a thousand years old, was designed as a vibrant commercial organism, a maze of narrow streets and tube-shaped houses built to maximize space and reduce street-front taxes. These are called tube houses, where the front is for work and trade, the back for living, and hidden between thin walls, there’s a courtyard letting in light and rain. Every corner tells a story: a hidden temple behind a fruit stand, an old man repairing fountain pens, a woman serving phở from a pot on the ground, with precise gestures like a ritual. The buildings are often tall and narrow, built during the French period, with rusted balconies and colorful curtains fluttering in the warm wind. They seem more like people—each with its own story, breath, and way of existence.
The Origins of Hanoi
It all began in 1010 when King Lý Thái Tổ decided to move the capital to Thăng Long, the “Flying Dragon City,” choosing a strategic location between rivers and trade routes. Since then, the city’s heart developed into two parts: the Imperial Citadel, enclosed within walls and symbolizing imperial power, and the bustling trading city, open and lively, meant for exchange. Over the centuries, artisans from nearby villages moved here, bringing crafts and traditions. Every street became a district of workshops, governed by a guild, with a temple dedicated to the guardian spirit of the trade. They were called the “36 Guilds of Arts,” though today many more exist, and the number has become more of a symbol than an exact figure.
Pluto and Alis on a traditional rikshaw
In the 17th century, Chinese merchants brought new momentum to the economy, and the neighborhood grew and adapted. Then, at the end of the 19th century, the French arrived. They changed the city’s face: widening streets, draining lakes, demolishing gates that separated districts, erasing the village-like charm that had persisted for centuries. Yet, they couldn’t break the soul of the place. Colonial facades appeared—arches, rectangular windows, pediments—but behind, in interior courtyards, life went on just as before.
Even during wartime, the Old Quarter persisted. In the 1960s, with the policy of collective housing, many homes were nationalized and divided among large families. Courtyards filled with makeshift structures, spaces grew narrower, but the community endured. After 1986, with the Đổi Mới reform, the push towards the market revived the neighborhood’s original spirit: people opened new shops, revitalized their crafts, and took control of their future. Today, amidst tall buildings and tangled wires, the neighborhood’s identity still survives: the urban fabric, hidden temples, tube houses, artisans’ streets. It’s a fragile but resilient balance.
Hoan Kiem: Lake of the Returned Sword
In the midst of all this is Hoan Kiem, the Lake of the Returned Sword. An oasis of calm, almost detached from the world. Legend tells that an emperor received a magical sword in a dream from a turtle god to free the country from Chinese invaders. After victory, while sailing on the lake, a giant golden turtle emerged from the waters and took back the sword. Since then, the lake bears that name, and the tower on an island at its center seems to guard a collective memory that needs no words. In the evening, as lights turn on and young people sit on the steps chatting, the lake reflects the city like a tired yet proud mirror.
The Temple of Literature and Millenary Culture
A short distance away, the Temple of Literature opens into a series of peaceful courtyards, like a deep breath after the bustle. Founded in 1070 and dedicated to Confucius, it housed Vietnam’s first university. Stone steles beneath trees bear the names of distinguished students from centuries past, carved carefully, as if to say knowledge deserves remembrance. Even today, students in school uniforms burn incense at altars, praying for good exams. They don’t seem like tourists—they’re part of the place, as if the past is just another room in the same building.
Ho Chi Minh’s Mausoleum
Hanoi cultural and historical city
Further north, the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum rises with a solemn architecture inspired by Eastern European monuments. Here, “Uncle Ho,” as he is affectionately called, rests in a glass coffin, wrapped in the simplicity that defined him in life. Surrounding gardens are spacious and orderly, and just beyond is the stilt house where he lived—a humble, functional dwelling. No luxury, no exaggerated celebration. Everything speaks of sobriety, almost resistance to grandeur. Yet, his figure continues to walk the city’s streets, in history books, and in guidebooks.
Hanoi’s Flavors and Surprises
But Hanoi isn’t just history. It’s also taste, and sometimes surprise. In a corner of the Old Quarter, follow the line of people standing in front of a small table to discover a famous spot known only to those who seek. Here, the cà phê trứng — egg coffee — is born, a seemingly contradictory drink: whipped egg yolk with condensed milk placed on a strong, bitter Robusta espresso. You try it hesitantly, then understand: it’s neither sweet nor salty nor liquid nor solid. It’s a balance—a velvety cream softening the bitterness, warming without heaviness. You drink slowly, sitting on a plastic chair amid the bustling traffic. It’s a moment of peace won.
And then there’s the food. Always, everywhere. Phở, the noodle soup with clear broth and thin slices of meat, served at dawn or midnight. Bún chả, cold noodles with grilled pork and sweet-sour sauce. Bánh mì, crispy bread stuffed with pâté, vegetables, and spices, bought for a few cents and eaten while walking. In Hanoi, eating isn’t separate from life—it’s life itself, seasoned with coriander, lime, and chili.
In the evening, in a small theater with a wooden stage, you can watch a water puppet show. Wooden figures dance on a pond’s surface, moved by hidden sticks beneath the water’s surface. They tell stories of plowing, battles, deities, and talking animals. This ancient art, born in lakeside villages, feels modern and poetic. Spectators laugh, applaud, children gaze in wonder. No one considers it folklore; it’s just a well-told story.
Hanoi doesn’t try to please everyone. It’s not as elegant as Kyoto or as efficient as Singapore. It’s irregular, sometimes uncomfortable, often noisy. Yet, after a few days, it starts to feel familiar. Its beauty isn’t in order but in vitality—its ability to hold sacred and ordinary, past and present, noise and silence. It’s a city that reveals itself slowly—through a smile, a cold beer at sunset, a bite of something new that already feels like yours.
Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto)
