Change in perspective

What most people certainly see when they first visit Hanoi is a bustling, deafening and virtually chaotic city. You’re initially so overwhelmed by the anarchic traffic customs, the exotic and not-so-exotic smells and the occasional intense soliciting from street vendors, that you fail to understand most guidebooks’ description of Hanoi as the “grand old dame of the Orient,[…] perhaps the most graceful, atmospheric and exotic capital city in Asia” (Lonely Planet, 2009).

I must admit that, although I was instantly seduced by the locals’ charm and radiant smiles, I was hardly seeing through the Lonely Planet’s eyes. The first week I felt engulfed by the city and was helplessly fighting back, trying to resurface. I’m sure many factors came into play such as the bad and smelly hotel, the noise in the streets and the cold and dreary weather. On top of it that, I could not get myself to feel warm. The coldness combined with the humidity had meshed with my bones in a strange symbiosis, impeding me from attaining a comfortable body temperature. I felt like I was sailing through a cloud without a compass and no North Star in sight. I was in transition.

Improvised barbershop on my way to the cobbler

After my duty travel to Hai Phong (20-23 February) the sky magically cleared and the constellation appeared. I found my way. I slept in my new apartment and undid my suitcase for the first time in 10 days. I began to truly live like a resident. I found the local supermarket, the neighborhood kiosk and the corner market where to purchase local seasonal fruits and vegetables brought daily by peasants in cone-shaped hats and woven baskets. I went for my first run in the neighborhood park (the largest park in central Hanoi) and for my first meal in a local restaurant. The city was unravelling before my eyes.

Saturday was my first day off in the city and I planned to entirely take advantage of my free time. I had no particular destination but I did have a goal: find a cobbler. My only pair of heels had already succumbed to the uneven pavement and frequent potholes.

With my limited knowledge of the Vietnamese language, I began to walk around the streets, showing the heels of my shoes and gesturing my needs. People would smile and point into the cobbler’s general direction. After numerous stops, I finally strolled down a narrow street and noticed three guys crouched on little stools in the middle of the sidewalk, each one hunched over something. In the background, a minuscule hole-in-the-wall shop cluttered with all kinds of shoes: jackpot!

I removed my shoes from the bag and inquired on the price. A woman, probably one of the men’s wives, approached me with a friendly smile. She could master a few words in English and launched the usual set of questions: “Where are you from? How old are you? Are you married?” After the necessary introduction she told me the price (20,000 VND =$1) and instructed me to return at 5pm.

One of the many beautiful pagodas

I jigsawed back through a new set of streets and for the first time really looked around. I glanced up at the buildings; down to distinguish the choice of shops in my surrounding area; and ahead to get a glimpse of the landscape. I liked what I saw. I felt happy and at ease. The honking and traffic noise magically muted, the trees seemed to have grown larger and greener and the houses uncovered their hidden charms: “What a pleasure it is to meet you, grand dame of the Orient!”