Xin chào, Pangyaos. I’m looking at the photos; my chest tightens. I can still feel the humid night air on my skin, still hear the hum of a thousand motorbikes weaving through the dark like a river. Vietnam doesn’t just stay in memory; it seeps into the bones. That shot of me in front of Ben Thanh Market, the clock tower blazing like a golden beacon, I remember thinking: this city doesn’t sleep. It just breathes, in a pulse of neon and street food smoke. 

Saigon (Ho Chi Minh): Dance with the Traffic

Saigon hit me like a warm wind: joyful, chaotic, and alive. I grinned until it came time to cross the street. My stomach dropped as a wall of scooters bore down like a slow-motion tidal wave. Every instinct screamed run, but I didn’t. I stepped out with trembling faith, and the river of motorbikes miraculously parted around me. The next night, the panic was gone, replaced by the confidence of a local.

Then there was the food: a dinner table surrounded by a spread so gloriously abundant it seemed like a boodle fight, extra large. It started with gỏi cuốn, fresh spring rolls that looked like translucent art. The coconut water straight from the shell was the best thing in my mouth on a hot day. 

But more than the food, it was the laughter. We raised our glasses, “Một, hai, ba, dô!” until our tears streamed down our faces, for reasons that had nothing to do with the chilli. I whispered a sincere “Ngon quá” to the chef. 

The Saigon Central Post Office stopped me in my tracks. Standing before those grand yellow walls, I felt a century pressing on my shoulders: all the letters, heartbreaks, and celebrations that had passed through those doors. I felt like I was Piolo Pascual shooting a movie in front of a historical site (walang kokontra, please). I felt small. And grateful.

Hanoi: Timeless Beauty and Ancient Souls

Hanoi was different: deeper, slower, achingly pretty. If Saigon is the country’s modern heart, Hanoi is its ancient soul, weathered and quietly devastating. The air felt thick with history. I spent the afternoon happily lost in the Old Quarter’s narrow alleys, stumbling upon coffee shops tucked inside crumbling, magnificent buildings. I didn’t want to leave.

The food in Hanoi was a revelation. Pho on a tiny plastic stool, inches from the traffic, with broth simmering like the voice of Fernando Poe, Jr. Then the bun cha, smoky and herb-fragrant. Eating on the street is where you find the true spirit of this city.

But then came the trip’s greatest tragedy.

I had found the famous Vietnamese egg tarts. Still warm, smelling of custard and everything right, like a Pangyao magazine. 

I cradled the box. Then my colleague Sahng Tran invited me for coffee at his friend Sizkoh Nguyen’s bar. I said yes. The conversation was long, winding, and interesting. Time dissolved. I forgot about my tarts.

I remembered them back at the hotel, standing in my room, empty-handed, the slow, dawning sadness of a man who has made a mistake. My tarts. My beautiful, irreplaceable tarts. Gone. At that moment of flaky heartbreak, a song floated into my head:

“I left my tart, in Sahng’s friend Sizkoh’s…”

Music and Resilience

Women in immaculate white Áo Dài dresses played instruments I’d never seen, coaxing sounds I have no words for: haunting, ethereal, piercing. There was a melancholy that reached right through my chest. It spoke of a long, hard-won history and a people who had endured far more than most. 

Surrounded by lush greenery and bright red flowers, I sat still. I felt what I can only call grateful sorrow, a bittersweet ache for all the beauty and weight packed into this small, extraordinary country. I certainly wished my Pangyaos were there to complete the chaos: Aileen, probably singing her heart out like she was at a concert, and Martin, eyeing up a bewildered-looking chicken in his search for drumsticks. 

“Chúc mừng sức khỏe!” I toasted the empty room. Next time, Pangyaos. Next time.

The Warmth of the People

A trip like this lives or dies by its people. Vietnamese are extraordinary. There is a warmth in them I wasn’t prepared for: the way a shopkeeper beams when you attempt “cam on” and murder the tone entirely, yet they smile in a way that feels like forgiveness and kindness wrapped into one.

I stood in a bookstore wearing my touristy red “Viet Nam” hat, miles from home, dressed like a walking souvenir, and feeling a sudden rush of pure gratitude. I had never felt more at peace. “Salamat sa pagkakataong makita ang ganda ng mundo,” I whispered to myself. One of those rare moments where I understand, with almost embarrassing clarity, how lucky I am to be alive and wandering. 

Packing Up the Memories

Leaving was the hardest part. There is a gut-punch sadness when I zipped up my last bag, knowing the magic was over, as if none of this had ever happened. I tried to compress it all into a suitcase: the tastes, the laughs, the humidity, the music, the grief over the tarts. I couldn’t. I failed to bottle the smell of incense or the sound of rain on a lime leaf. I carried them in my heart and trusted that they would change me.

Looking back, I see a version of me that was more curious, more open, more generous with his wonder. Vietnam challenged me and embraced me in the same breath. It showed me that beauty lives in chaotic streets just as much as in a quiet corner. I left a piece of my heart in those shops and alleys, and I know that I’ll be back one day to find it; next time perhaps, with my Pangyaos. 

And this time, I’m keeping the tarts.