Letters from Indochina (Part 42)

This entry is part 42 of 43 in the series Letters from Indochina

May 11, 2025

Letters from Indochina (Part 42)

By Simon J. Lau

I set out before sunrise, hoping to snap photos of Long Bien Bridge just before rush hour. Built by the French in the early 1900s and heavily bombed during the Vietnam War, Long Bien is a weathered iron span that has carried generations of commuters across the Red River. It links the Old Quarter to Hanoi’s outskirts. Unlike the sleek bridges farther downstream, built mainly for cars and motorbikes, Long Bien still carries trains — and even makes room for pedestrians.

When I finally arrived, I caught Long Bien at just the right moment — a light trickle of motorbikes and bicycles, spaced out and half-silent in the rain. The early morning commuters moved with purpose, engines and pedals humming softly across the iron beams. Near the end of the bridge, just before a tight bend in the road, I found a giant trash bin and wedged myself in front of it — positioning myself in the path of oncoming traffic, snapping photos as commuters streamed by. It wasn’t the dramatic rush I’d seen elsewhere, but something better: a small and growing motorcade of quiet intent, rolling steadily into the city.

After leaving the bridge, I slipped back into the Old Quarter. It’s a centuries-old maze of narrow streets and aging shop houses. Originally laid out by royal decree and organized by trade guilds, each street still bears the name of the goods once sold there. Silk, silver, paper, herbs — the names remain, even if the trades have faded. French colonial buildings sit beside temples and tube houses, layered without symmetry or plan. It’s chaotic, unpredictable, and unlike anywhere else in the city.

Each time I visit Hanoi, I stay in the Old Quarter. It’s dense and full of energy — a place where getting lost feels more like a minor expedition than a mistake. Recently, I found a coffee shop just steps from my hotel that I’ve come to love. I’ve already been twice — something I rarely do when I travel — but it’s a place where I can spend hours writing in peace. They also make coffee just the way I like it: filtered, dripping slowly into a glass over a thick layer of condensed milk. Strangely, that style and presentation have become harder to find now than before.

For my last night in Hanoi — and my last night in Indochina — I found myself at a rooftop bar overlooking St. Joseph’s Cathedral. It’s a faded but striking neo-Gothic church built by the French in the late 19th century, with twin towers that rise above the bustle of the city below. The cocktail was good — smooth, with a nice kick of spice. But the view was mostly blocked by trees and a brightly lit lamp post. Still, the moment stuck with me.

As I watched revelers take in the evening and traffic cruise by, I realized something: this is the longest I’ve ever traveled alone, and the longest I’ve gone without being able to have real, meaningful conversations. In every country I’ve visited, I’ve been a guest without the words to truly connect — beyond gestures and glances, or even to say hello. These places have been beautiful to see — but the experience has been strangely quiet.