Hanoi is a city turned inside out. Narrow buildings jam together like too many books on a shelf, and its doorsteps are alive with activity you might be more accustomed to finding behind the glass panes of a window.
Do your eyebrows need plucking? The woman on the corner of Gia Ngu and Hang Be will handle that for you right there on the spot. Are your ears due for a cleaning? The man on the west side of Ngo Phat Loc appears to be proficient with his long metal tools, but you’ll need to stand in line. Do you need a haircut? A bowl of pho? A cup of coffee? A slab of raw meat for dinner? All of this can be procured on that narrow strip of cement.
It is perhaps because so much of Hanoi’s citizens’ day-to-day plays out in this open-air that I have the distinct feeling I’ve crashed a party, and their icy cold reception of me only perpetuates this impression. No smiles. No nods. No ‘hellos.’ In fact my warmest interactions are with the women selling fruit out of giant baskets that hang on sticks they balance on their shoulders like those scales that adorn a lawyer’s desk. Happy picture? They demonstrate the clicking of a camera with one forefinger while jovially bouncing the stick on their shoulder. This suggests to me that they’re aware of how miserable they normally look – and perhaps that’s part of the whole ploy.
A smile will cost me.
To avoid walking in the street, where motorbikes swarm like the population of a disturbed bees nest, I step gingerly around the citizens of Hanoi who squat on tiny plastic stools and eat their meals in between the women dismantling raw chickens and a cluster or parked motorbikes. To move a few blocks is an exhausting feat made more complex by the simple fact that I can’t. Stop. Gawking.
To multiply me by the six million tourists that cycle through Vietnam each year, I can understand their outward disdain. We’re an awful lot of party crashers.
It’s for this reason if no other that I almost condone their shameless manipulation of me. Take for instance the pineapple saleswoman. It’s mid-afternoon and I’m seeking something to fuel my evening run when we come upon one another on a side street. Excellent, I’ll take one. I hold up a single finger and she smiles warmly while dropping two servings into a plastic bag. Okay, sure, fine. She hands me the plastic bag, quotes a price and then runs away while my hand is still making its way to my pocket. Flummoxed, I stare after her, probably watched by the dozens of locals seated at the restaurant that spills out onto my heels. I look at David and he only shrugs. Suddenly a young man approaches me. He’s saying something and after repeating himself a second or third time I realize he’s asking me to pay him for the pineapple. He quotes me a price higher than the woman’s and I look at him, exasperated.
Their sales tactic has killed my appetite and I try to hand him back the pineapple but he backs away from me, arms raised like I’ve just pulled a gun on him. This shouldn’t surprise me. I know better: touching something is the same as buying it.
So I hang the plastic bag over the handle of a motorcycle and calmly walk away. Perhaps someone with a greater sense of humor (or more patience) would laugh about the whole thing but instead I’m ranting to David about the insanity of the situation. I don’t think you’ll disagree: the purchase of pineapple should not be so difficult.
If Hanoi is a party, well then the company is not its most redeemable quality. I think I’ve made this much clear.
But then there’s the food.
On our second day in Hanoi, David proposes we take a street food tour and in a bold deviation from my culinary norm, I agree.
When it comes to food, David and I sport differing philosophies. While we both place an inordinate emphasis on dinner (collectively, we’ve spent more time researching restaurants than flights or attractions or even accommodations), he eats with a reckless abandon that I refuse to adopt. For him, it is another way to experience the local culture and, while I don’t disagree, nor will I join him in the sampling of head cheese and blood sausages. So when our street-food tour guide leads us into a dimly lit restaurant – the very embodiment of ‘hole in the wall’ – it is with great trepidation that I sit down. ‘Street food’ suggested to me an open-air market where I might have the opportunity to pick and choose to my heart’s content but this is simply not the case. I can see right away that I’ll be facing a decision between ingesting or insulting.
I’m still trying to rearrange my expectations when a large bowl of steaming noodle soup is placed in front of me. With a napkin our guide carefully inspects the chopsticks before handing me a pair and I inquire about the meat-paddy substance that floats at the top of my bowl, unsure if I actually want to hear his answer.
David’s digging in while I’m still flying dry chopsticks over my bowl. You’ll like this, he assures me. Now, here is an interesting byproduct of long-term relationships that I’ve only recently begun to appreciate. While I still would never let him order from a menu for me, David has all but mastered my finicky culinary preferences. So it should come as no surprise that he’s right: I do like it. In fact, this particular dish, Bun Rieu Cua (Sour crab soup with vermicelli), will be my favorite of the day.
Next up, we sample fruit from a sidewalk stand. I try not to giggle while our bashful guide tries to find the english word ‘breast’ in his vocabulary. He’s massaging a round fruit and explaining its milky consistency. From there its to another hole in another wall where we are served another bowl of noodle soup. After that it’s fried spring rolls with an assortment of fillings. Then more soup. More spring rolls. I can’t eat it all but this is not for lack of desire (believe me, I’m as surprised as you). The tour culminates on the third floor of a cafe populated purely by local people whose native tongue ricochets off cement walls at an almost deafening volume. We look like giants seated for a tea-party at this child-sized table. I can rest my chin on my knees. Out comes the grand-finale: coffee with sweetened egg-whites churned to a cloudy foam. David and I clink our mugs and in a celebratory manner. It’s good, he assures me and takes another sip.
So, okay Hanoi. You guys aren’t the friendliest. Your motorbikes threaten to kill me every time I dare to cross the street. Your fruit vendors employ peculiar practices. Your horn-honking is a tad out of hand.
But your food. My god, it’s excellent.
Somewhere Seeking 
Yes it is an amazing place. You were much more adventurous then Ashley and I. I would love to revisit.
We were pleasantly surprised by how much we enjoyed it – we’d heard such mixed reviews…And, well, I suppose my review is mixed as well.
lovely B&W photos!!
Thanks! This means a lot coming from you – From what I see on your blog, you’re a fantastic photographer. Looking forward to keeping up with you.