I Hate Hanoi

Hanoi hit me like a ton of bricks.

My three-hour flight from Singapore was easy enough, but flying always exhausts me no matter how long or short the flight. Getting to the airport, getting through customs and immigration, figuring out how to spend the rest of that particular currency, flying, visas, more customs and immigration, getting FROM the airport…even if you’re flying through someplace as seamless as Changi, it’s not fun! Arrival in Hanoi was not too bad considering the DMV-style process of getting my visa on arrival as well as the new requirement that all Americans pay a whopping $135. Fair enough, I guess.

I’d arranged for a driver at the airport as Hanoi is notorious for taxi scams. Unfortunately, though, I couldn’t find him. The arrivals area is pretty small, so after canvassing the area for 15 minutes or so, I was pretty sure I wasn’t just missing him. Feeling dehydrated, I decided to buy a bottle of water and sit down to think about making a plan B. As I sat I could feel frustration washing over me. Should I risk it with a regular taxi? Should I try a local bus? As I thought, I furiously tugged at my water bottle, trying to open it. I felt a tap on my shoulder. Oh, here we go, I thought, steeling myself—and turned around to see a middle-aged Vietnamese man pointing to my bottle of water. I handed it to him, he twisted off the cap, I nodded my thanks, and he turned away. I was touched by the kind gesture and felt bad that my first instinct had been to prepare for a hustle.

I sat for a few minutes, rehydrating and planning my next move. I’ll wait ten minutes, do one last round of checking for the driver, then I’ll buy a SIM card and call my hotel, I reasoned. I geared up and walked back down the arrival hall, where I saw, to my relief, a man with a sign that said ASHLAY [sic].

“THAT’S ME!” I squealed, and off we went.

So, Hanoi.

If it were a New York man it would be a Bushwick boy. Dirty. Confusing. Overwhelming. I’m not sure I like it, I definitely don’t understand it, and I’m not sure I want to. It’s grimy and sticky and the traffic is the most absurd I’ve ever seen. Swarms of motorbikes throng the streets. I’ve seen maybe two traffic lights, and no one actually heeds them. Sidewalks? Sure, they’re there—under dozens of parked motorbikes. Just walk into the street and the motorbikes will move around you is the advice everyone will give you. And it’s true. Like Moses, I step into the intersections and the seas of cycles part around me. My heart is in my throat each time, but I’m still here to tell the tale.

Hanoi is hot. Hotter than anywhere else I’ve been. It is not welcoming. It is in-your-face like New York, but way less pedestrian-friendly. It has endless shopping options, but you must be prepared to bargain. On my first day, I successfully haggled for a pair of North Fake hiking shoes (I had to toss my trekkers in KL after ruining them in Sumatra jungle mud), ate a delicious banh mi, and caught a water puppet show. At the water puppet show, I’ll admit, I shed a tear or two. I was tired. And I hated Hanoi. I was glad to be booked on a sleeper train to the north country that night. But I’ll be back to Hanoi, and I’m determined to find something I love here in this battered and bruised capital.