Letters from Indochina (Part 43)

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

May 12, 2025

Letters from Indochina (Part 43)

By Simon J. Lau

On my final day, I spent the morning walking down Trang Tien Street — one of Hanoi’s oldest and most prominent roads. Long before the French arrived, it was home to royal compounds, lakeside markets, and early urban life — a center of power dating back to the Vietnamese dynasties. During the colonial era, the French redeveloped the street and its surroundings, transforming the area into what became known as the French Quarter — a showcase of European urban design. At its head stands the Hanoi Opera House, framed by wide boulevards and grand facades meant to project elegance, order, and influence.

If Vietnam was the crown jewel of France’s colonial empire, this was the display case. But that vision didn’t last — few things ever do. A few blocks down, I passed a once-stately building where a tree had burst through the balcony — roots tangled in the iron railings, branches pushing skyward. It felt like a quiet metaphor for all of French Indochina: something built to last forever, now cracked open and overtaken — not erased, just reclaimed. Like the empire itself, it was never as permanent as it pretended to be.

Although history lingers in the architecture, I’ve always found Vietnam most alive at the dinner table. One evening, near the end of my trip, I had bun cha at the restaurant where Obama and Bourdain once sat over grilled pork, fresh noodles, and cold beer. I liked Obama, but I adored Bourdain. He introduced me to Vietnam — not through stale guidebooks or tired itineraries, but through raw, intimate moments: slurping noodles from a small bowl, riding motorbikes deep into the countryside, and sitting around a tiny table on short plastic stools with good company and great food.

Ending here felt right. The table they shared is still there, now encased in glass — but everything else has moved on: the clamorous noise, the grill smoke, and the rhythm of the city. Eating alone, I wasn’t trying to recreate their moment; I just needed a way to mark the end of mine.