A VIEW FROM A HANOI WINDOW

As I look out from my room, opposite stands a sadly decaying colonial-style building, clinging to its very last vestiges of magnificence. Its features are slowly crumbling away, ravaged by the elements and overtaken by vegetation sprouting from every tiny crack and crevice. The rusty, ornate window bars offer a glimpse into the dark, forbidding gloom behind each pane. Or is it really so bad inside, I wonder? For wedged between the sill and the iron bars is a lady’s stiletto shoe. The owner, I wonder what she is like?

As I write this, a tiny Vietnamese woman pushes a bicycle along the street below, loaded with flowers front and back, all carefully arranged on wicker trays. She wears a traditional conical straw hat adorned with a floral pattern, easily admired from above. Clear waterproofs cover her blouse and trousers, and she wears bright blue rubber wellingtons. I wonder where she is going?

Under a tin shelter on the pavement, six or seven potted palm trees stretch out over the road toward the light. In the dark shade, a woman sits on a tiny stool, carefully preparing vegetables with a sharp knife. Just a few feet away, another crouches low, furiously washing pots and pans in a big blue bowl. An older lady steps out into the road in a full-length colorful dress and smart shoes. Like a matriarch, she surveys the scene before retreating into the shadows. I wonder who she is?

My road is not a busy thoroughfare, but to my right lies a much livelier street. On the corner opposite the hotel entrance, I watch a group of women who prepare and serve food day and night. I haven’t yet figured out if they are one family, or if that little room behind them is their home. It’s early morning, but already they’re serving locals and what appear to be two backpackers—a girl and a boy, both sporting ponytails and tattoos. I wonder where they’ll be heading?

It’s a busy vista to observe, full of life and movement, but also rich with sound. Rain taps gently on the tin and tarps stretched over the walkways. The purr of scooter engines and the constant tooting of horns fill the air. Cheerful chatter drifts up from the women and customers at the café. And what’s this? A smell of garlic—or maybe ginger—wafts up toward me.

Ahh, lovely Hanoi. I wonder what she is cooking? 

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