I’m willing to forgive nearly everything about Saigon. It’s a sign of a sustainable relationship, as I still wish to coexist in peace with this city. To me, Saigon’s midday, even when the searing sun flares the strongest, is when the trees are the most glorious. The sudden bouts of torrential rain are indeed a nuisance, but I tell myself that at least the streets can get a wash after a dusty day. But there’s one thing that never goes away and that I can never write off; something I can’t, for the life of me, find reasons to romanticize or defend. Those are the infuriating floods that submerge Saigon streets every time the tide is high.

I used to think that I’m seasoned enough to deal with Saigon’s flooding. I come from the Mekong Delta, where the flood cycle is a way of life, and the year is divided into seasons of high and low water levels. Yet, the first day of my Intro to Saigon Floods course completely dampened my confidence.

I still remember it was an evening. I was riding my bike back home on the usual route when what appeared in front of my eyes startled me. A huge pond of murky black water inundated the road surface. It wasn’t the nourishing alluvium-rich swirls of my hometown, but a watery sludge of dirt and rubbish. My scooter’s weary wheels slowed to a crawl, struggling to escape the water that rushed in from every direction.

“The tide is high today,” during that moment, I remember this caution from my housemate, sent just an hour ago. At the time, I entirely ignored the text, partly because I was preoccupied with something, but also because I naively believed that tides are just something for the rivers and the sea. From where I live to the nearest body of water is about 2 kilometers, so I wasn’t concerned. Saigon’s high tide decided to punish me for underestimating it by sending the clearest wake-up call possible.

The dim street lamps made me even more impatient to get out. Not knowing when the water would go down, I brashly sped up and steered ahead right into the middle of the flooded street. I was greeted with the rancid stench of sewage mixed in with the acrid fume from the exhaust pipes of waterlogged bikes around me. I held my breath, gripped the handlebars tight, and glued my eyes to the divider in the middle of the road. At times, a few motorcycles passed me and slowed down until they stopped completely, evoking barrages of expletives from their owners. I was a mess inside, quietly praying to the deities above to bless my engine so it could safely overcome this seemingly endless stretch of water.

Only after I parked the bike in the lot did I realize that I was wet from the calf down. From my balcony up high, I saw tiny flecks of human wearily wading across the water surface. On both sides of the street, the doors of shops and houses stayed emotionlessly shut. Rideshare drivers took shelter under their canopies, shaking their heads in resignation. Occasionally, a truck careened by, forming massive waves that whipped into walls and traffic and dragging floating debris and plastic chairs of nearby homes into the water.

Since that night, flooding has climbed to the top position of my most feared events during the rainy season. Seemingly peaceful water had the power to cause the fast-paced rhythm of Saigon to come to a halt. What remains are the phlegmy coughs of waterlogged bike engines, in between bursts of gray exhaust as commuters try in vain to restart them; and the wet squishes of rubber flip-flops. In my neighborhood, living and preparing for high-tide days are a well-honed skill of the people, and I was a clumsy novice.

I still remember the feeling of irritation every time I accidentally drove past a huge pothole that the mucky water obscured. The kids sitting behind their mothers on the way home after school weren’t that upset, because they were too busy cheering their parents on as the bikes pierced into the thickness of the water. The college student over there wasn’t that annoyed despite his dead bike, because the local uncles helped him push the vehicle to a dry pavement to wait for the mechanic to arrive. The residents bailing out water from their homes were handling the situation just fine, because the whole family was laughing and joking around amid piles of buckets, basins, and containers.

Over time, I realize that living with flooding isn’t just keeping up with tidal reports, figuring out which routes are high enough to evade floods, or honing my driving skills to navigate inundated streets. It is also understanding an important life philosophy: just accept the divine workings of nature. I won’t stop hating flooded days in Saigon, but I will accept their presence in my life, and, for now, choose to warm my heart with thoughts of the kindness everyone living here has shared with me and one another. Keeping one’s head above water is important, but here, people try to support and care for others in the water, too.

This January, Saigoneers have been enjoying an unusually pleasant stretch of weather, with daytime temperatures hovering around the mid-20s and dipping to 18–20°C late at night and in the early morning.

Cooler temperatures are not unheard of in Saigon during January, a short but welcome time of the year, when the rainy season has largely waned and cold air masses from the northern winter drift southward, blanketing the region in crisp breezes and chilly mornings.

In recent history, the last time the mercury fell to 18°C in the city was in 2015. According to Trần Văn Hưng, deputy director of the Southern Vietnam Hydrometeorological Center, HCMC’s lowest recorded temperature occurred in December 1999 at the Tân Sơn Hòa Weather Station, reaching 16.4°C. The city also experienced a low of 16.9°C in 1995.

While these readings may seem mild compared to conditions in the Central Highlands or northern Vietnam, Saigon, known for its searing heat, rarely enjoys cool weather in any given year, typically for only a few days in December and January.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, March and April are usually the hottest months in HCMC, when temperatures commonly climb into the high 30s and even reached 39°C in 2024. That, however, wasn't the highest; that record belongs to May 7, 1998, when the temperature at Tân Sơn Hòa reached 39.3°C.

Photo via Thương Trường.

After years under development limbo, Saigon’s Metro Line 2 has finally gotten an official date for breaking ground, but will this timeline stick?

As Tuổi Trẻ reports, the Hồ Chí Minh City People’s Committee recently set the date for Metro Line 2 construction to begin on January 15, 2026. From now until December, urban railway authorities must complete and submit relevant reports on feasibility, environmental impact, and project supervision.

This starting date applies to the first phase of the metro line, aiming to complete the initial segment spanning 11.3 kilometers from the existing Bến Thành Station to the northwestern region of the city.

A render of the train to be used on Metro Line 2.

According to Thanh Niên, phase one will feature 10 stations, apart from the Bến Thành Interchange, including Tao Đàn, Dân Chủ, Hòa Hưng, Lê Thị Riêng, Phạm Văn Hai, Bảy Hiền, Nguyễn Hồng Đào, Bà Quẹo, Phạm Văn Bạch, and Tân Bình — all will be underground except for Tân Bình. A few are planned to be interchanges with future lines: Tao Đàn (with Line 3B), Bảy Hiền (with Line 5), and Bà Quẹo (with Line 6).

In 2024, the city hoped to begin construction as early as 2025 with a finishing date in 2030, however, red tapes and delays in site clearance pushed the commencement to 2026.

After the first phase, Line 2’s second phase will stretch the other direction from Bến Thành to Thủ Thiêm in Thủ Đức City, while the last phase will extend northwards to the border with Tây Ninh City. 

Photos via Thanh Niên.

In case you need a pick-me-up on this dreary rainy Friday, here’s a dose of “độc lạ Bình Dương” quackery.

This morning, November 7, motorists in Bến Cát Ward of Hồ Chí Minh City (formerly Bến Cát City, Bình Dương Province) were flabbergasted to find an ostrich careening along on their morning commute, Dân Trí reports.

The panicked poultry could be found parading on NA3 Road in the Mỹ Phước 2 Industrial Complex, perhaps making a coffee run or hurrying to report to the morning shift? According to Bình Dương residents, the ostrich may have escaped from a local eco-tourism attraction.

Thankfully, local roads were mostly clear during the time when it was spotted, so no human or ostrich was harmed. Nonetheless, its presence ruffled some feathers of local officials, so the ostrich has since been taken into custody by Bình Dương police as they began a search for its owner.

Originating from Africa, the ostrich is not native to Vietnam, however, since its first introduction into the country in the 1990s, the towering bird has become a popular attraction in amusement parks and petting zoos.

In May this year, Huế residents were also shocked to find an ostrich running on the 1A National Highway, chased by a man on motorbike, whom many assumed was its owner.

Are you an ostrich herder in Bình Dương whose flock is missing a member? Contact the Bến Cát Police Department to retrieve your outlaw ostrich.

Photo via Pháp Luật.

It's no exaggeration to say that working in a forge is akin to being in a fiery sauna.

There are two poems I remember most from my primary school days: ‘The Sound of Bamboo Brooms’ by Tố Hữu and ‘The Blacksmith’ by poet Khánh Nguyên. As a child, I associated the labor of street sweepers and blacksmiths with temperature: the former braves the cold, dewy night to clean the streets, while latter stands before a literal furnace.

On scorching Saigon days, folks hurry to reach their destination quickly to avoid the blistering heat. Yet, as I speed on local streets on my scooter, I find myself thinking more about those whose jobs require them to endure such harsh conditions for decades.

A fourth-generation torch bearer

Many, if not most, forges in Vietnam today are not named after their current owners. Passed down from generation to generation, these forges retain the original name to honor their predecessors, the craft they practice and the legacy they continue. Lò Rèn Phương, a forge in Saigon's Thủ Đức City with a history of about 80 years, also shares this tradition.

“[Phương] was my great-grandfather’s name. Back then, everything was very rudimentary, mostly operated by manual labor. He had to use a turbine fan to coax the flames, unlike the automatic blowers we have now. But despite the hardships, he loved his craft very much. He taught my father, who then taught me,” shared Toản, the current owner, pointing with pride to the timeworn sign at the entrance of the alley leading to the forge.

Today, Lò Rèn Phương mainly produces machetes, garden hoes, shovels, crowbars, and specialized construction materials. They also take custom orders for handcrafted tools like concrete chisels and road-digging crowbars.

A bone cleaver, for instance, takes about 2–3 hours to complete. For a skilled blacksmith like Toản, the process is so familiar it’s almost second nature and he encounters little difficulty executing the steps. But when serving tough clients who demand meticulous, razor-sharp products with precise dimensions down to the millimeter, Toản must measure and weigh each piece of metal carefully, leaving no detail unchecked.

To create a perfect tool, Toản believes that the blacksmith must first choose the right type of steel: one that offers the desired hardness and durability. Once the steel is selected, it is heated in the forge until red-hot, softened to make it easier to shape, and then quickly hammered to improve the grain structure, making the blade stronger and sharper with each sharpening.

The next step is heat treatment, a crucial phase that determines the knife’s quality. The steel is heated to a specific temperature and then rapidly cooled in a mixture of oil and chemicals. This process not only increases the carbon content in the steel but also hardens the blade, enabling the user to cut smoothly through anything. The final steps involve additional sharpening, polishing, attaching the handle, and a thorough inspection before the product reaches the customer.

“There are knives in the market that have become too dull from extended use and can no longer chop effectively. People bring them to me to have the edges redone or to order new ones. Sharpening a knife costs only tens of thousand dong, while a new knife ranges from tens to hundreds of thousand dong, depending on customer needs. For example, a coconut cleaver ranges from VND150,000 to VND200,000, while a bone-chopping knife costs VND250,000 to VND300,000. The more intricate and high-quality the knife, the pricier it is.”

Despite being a small business, each product from the forge comes with a unique warranty. Customers can bring any purchase with wear-and-tear to Toản for a free makeover. Remarkably, since taking over from his father, no one has complained about the product quality or requested a refund.

Keeping the flame burning

“The hammering makes the sound ‘cực’ which symbolizes ‘struggle’ (‘khổ’), and the metal when dipped into water sizzles (‘xèo’) which sounds likes ‘nghèo’ (poverty),” Toản talks about how his trade is often jokingly associated with poor working conditions and pay.

However, instead of shying away, he decided to finish his studies, entered the workforce, then returned to help his father and eventually took over the family's forge over 20 years ago.

“It's tough, exhausting, and hot,” he said. “The space from the forge to where I am is probably around a thousand degrees, with direct heat rising up to about 1,200–1,300°C. Even with 2–3 fans blowing to disperse the heat, it still affects you. And obviously, exposure to coal is hazardous. But this is a trade I genuinely love. Every finished product is made with my own hands, sweat, and effort. The feeling of shaping, bending, or forging even a small knife or chisel gives me a sense of honest labor, knowing my products support many people's work — it's indescribable.”

He acknowledged that today, forges can't attract as many customers as during their heyday due to the advancement of machinery and production lines. The most diminished customer demographic is contractors and companies needing large quantities. Diverse options on the market make it all the more challenging for traditional blacksmithing.

“During the golden days, my forge was always bustling with orders for all sorts of tools, not just hammers, knives, and chisels... But then technology developed so fast, mass production can constantly churn out affordable and serviceable tools, making it hard to compete," Toản confided. Additionally, the COVID-19 pandemic disrupted many businesses, including his forge.

Yet, Toản remains optimistic, believing that each product has its unique characteristics. Some specialized products require tailor-made orders that can't be found on the market, like a coconut saw, auto repair parts, or livestock feed knives, which must be customized to meet specific user requirements.

While blacksmithing is traditionally a father-to-son trade, some customers maintain a similar tradition. Products from the forge are durable, lasting 2–3 generations. When in need of new tools, they direct their descendants to the same forge. Toản mentioned that many older customers from far-flung localities like Long An, Hóc Môn, Củ Chi are willing to travel the long distance to order from him because they trust and prefer his products. This loyalty helps the forge endure through the years.

He fondly recalled a memorable encounter with an Indian customer who flew to Vietnam to place an order. Toản couldn't communicate in English, so they sat on the ground, drawing out shapes and processes with chalk. “I didn't understand a word he said, but we both drew pictures, and I ended up making several dozen crowbars for export to India. This customer returned 5–7 times, ordering hundreds of crowbars in total,” Toản said.

From the bottom of his heart, Toản always wants to maintain his ancestral trade for a long time but can't help but worry, as he's over 50 and his children are still young; he's uncertain if they'll want or be able to take over. He hopes his children can carry on the forge's legacy for many generations.

“If young people are interested in blacksmithing, they should come to learn so it can continue to exist. I hope that in the future, regardless of how the country progresses or changes, we remember the craftsmanship of our ancestors.”

Lò Rèn Phương is located at 562 Tô Ngọc Vân, Tam Bình Ward, Thủ Đức District, HCMC.

This article was originally published in 2024.

What are those astonishingly bright lights seen from an airplane window when approaching Saigon at night? I’ve had visitors ask me this on the drive home from the airport, and the question appears on Reddit every few months. I remember being befuddled myself the first time I witnessed the patchwork radiance.

So what are those bright lights that overwhelm the aerial view on clear nights? A hubristic attempt by humanity to mock the cosmos and its flimsy scattering of faded stars? A glitch in the matrix's landscape rendering? A simple illusion induced by the curvature of the earth and your own slipping sanity?

The real answer isn’t anything so outrageous: it's dragon fruit, or, to be exact, farms that grow them, as the fruits do not emit light. Near the coast, not far from Saigon, communities such as Hồ Cốc outside Vũng Tàu boast expansive dragon fruit farms. Left to the natural order, the cactus plants will produce numerous harvests per year, a boon to the local economy. But if super-charged via around-the-clock light, the plants become extra productive, blooming out of season and thus producing even more fruits which are of notably high quality. It’s easy to understand how this led farmers to string up lights throughout their massive fields.

In response to global concerns over energy consumption and sustainable agriculture, and with the assistance of government support, farmers have transitioned from inefficient traditional bulbs to 9-watt energy-saving LED lights. When coupled with solar power setups and water-saving irrigation systems, they result in significantly reduced power and resource consumption.

Photo via Hoàng Hậu dragon fruit farm.

The view of the distant countryside sprawled out beneath its electro-luminescent afghan is worth requesting a window seat next time you have a flight from TSN. And yet, I feel a little shame in revealing the origin of the lights. Knowing the dragon fruit lies behind the mystery is a bit like uncovering Tutankhamun’s long-lost tomb, only to discover it had already been looted and contains nothing but plaster shavings and mouse turds. So much radiance, so much uncertainty, all attributed to what one Reddit commentator described as a fruit that tastes like it has given up on its dreams: a passionless fruit.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

[Top image via Reddit user stknrdr]

Among Bùi Viện's assortment of xe ôm drivers and street food vendors, Bible-toting religious enthusiasts and other colorful personalities, 66-year-old Nghĩa stands out for his kind eyes and walrus-like mustache.

When we meet for the second time, near a pagoda in one of Phạm Ngũ Lão's wide alleys, Nghĩa rolls up on a well-worn, bright blue xích lô, slowing to a halt just beside me. We'd found each other the week before, when I was hanging around the backpacker area scouting xích lô drivers for a story. Well-versed in introductions, Nghĩa approached me, proudly unfolding the laminated news clippings he keeps in his pocket.

A xích lô driver for over half his life, Trà Vinh-born Nghĩa left the Mekong Delta as a young boy after his father was killed. Shortly thereafter, his mother brought Nghĩa and her four other children to Saigon, raising them by herself.

Though his childhood was fairly normal, Nghĩa's teen years were lived out against a backdrop of war. At 19, he joined the military along with two of his brothers and was injured twice over the next six years.

Around that same time, he met his wife.

“We became friends,” he explains. “She would treat me with fruits from her garden and clean water. Later, [after 1975], we got married.”

It was a difficult time for them both. Along with the rest of the country, Nghĩa struggled to pick up the pieces after years of conflict. Money was scarce and opportunities even scarcer. By the early 1980s, he had invested in a xích lô and began taking customers around at night.

For two years, Nghĩa struggled to make ends meet, earning a meager living from nighttime customers. That is, of course, until the foreigners came.

“Things changed in the early 1990s, when the first tourists arrived in Vietnam,” says Nghĩa. “I still remember my first foreign client, an Australian woman. Her fees were much higher than I was used to receiving. After I understood, I moved my spot to Bùi Viện, got my own team and start making decent money.”

Thanks to his English skills, Nghĩa was able to earn more, allowing him to raise his four children, the eldest of whom is now 42. His youngest, a 16-year-old son, is still in school and wants to be an engineer. This pleases the xích lô driver.

“I want him to become somebody,” explains Nghĩa. “Not the lowest caste like me.”

While he acknowledges the difficult circumstances which put him in this profession, Nghĩa harbors no bitterness about the course of his life. Even at his age, he works 12 hours a day, seven days a week. It's no longer out of necessity — he has grown children who can provide for him — but there's a sense of duty in Nghĩa's efforts. For decades, the xích lô has sustained him and raised his family. He's relatively well-known now, especially among high-end hotels, and routinely ferries customers around the city.

It was nearly noon by the time I clambered out of the weather-worn, 15-year-old xích lô. Along with a small but steadfast collection of other retirees, Nghĩa represents the last crop of Saigon's xích lô drivers. As the city develops and opportunities grow for young people in Vietnam, the tough times which brought Nghĩa into his lifelong occupation no longer exist. On the contrary, city officials are trying to phase out this mode of transportation, he explains. More and more, weary xích lô drivers who are struggling for fares will take the cash payout offered by the city to trade in their wheels for a different job. In another few years, xích lôs may be relegated to yet another nostalgic piece of Saigon’s collective memory.

This article was originally published in 2016.

I get my face shaved by sidewalk barbers; stop at every roving laminator I pass to have ticket stubs, photos, and doodles encased in plastic as souvenirs; and will always select a stool surrounded by traffic over a fine dining establishment. Add in the fact that I’ve kept my hair well past my shoulders for decades, and it should be a no-brainer that I regularly frequent tiệm gội đầu. And yet, somehow, last week was my first visit.

I’ll blame my shameful oversight on professional hair-washing’s place in western society. In my native US, paying someone else to wash one’s hair is quite expensive and reserved for fancy salons, and even then, only when accompanying a haircut or treatment. Entirely different arrangements of street and market economies mean one cannot exchange the equivalent of a bowl of phở and a cup of coffee for 20 minutes of careful follicle cleansing. 

After my visit to a shophouse providing gội đầu near my home, I don’t think I’ll ever be the same; I’ll never be content to wash my own hair again. I’ve always considered hair washing to be a yes or no skill; such a straightforward task allows no room for doing it wrong or even poorly. My time with Lan proved such binary thinking to be wildly wrong. From root to tip, her fingers, simultaneously forceful and nimble, found untouched strands and stretches to lather with exuberant efficacy. My hair was left softer, cleaner, and more luscious-looking than it’s ever been.

More than a mere matter of cleanliness, the visit was an opportunity for indulgence. Opting for the elevated gội đầu session with neck massage and shoulder massage, the 40-minute experience included hot stones prepped with phở herbs in a rice cooker eased across my laptop-weary neck along with a yogurt soap to soothe my sun-dried face pores. Full massages may be affordable and accessible in Vietnam, but gội đầu is even more convenient (I didn’t even have to unbuckle my belt). If a full spa service is a hearty meal, gội đầu is a refreshing snack that can satiate a midweek craving.

My typical hair wash routine is regularly a matter of quick efficiency that leaves little room for extended shower thoughts. Yet, with no podcast blaring from a Bluetooth speaker to distract me like normal and only minimal chit-chat with Lan, I had extra time for aimless daydreaming. The joys of letting my mind wander like a jellyfish in the current were only interpreted when Lan asked which type of shampoo I wanted. Bồ kết as an option! I fully expected the gội đầu to provide an immersion into Vietnamese culture in and of itself, but I didn't anticipate such ancillary encounters of unique heritage. 

In addition to its cultural particularity and the value of having fresh locks, the very process of finding the gội đầu shop was an act of immense pleasure. To locate a humble street hair-washing spot, as opposed to fancy salon, it’s best to look for a Zalo number scrawled on a handmade sign or, better yet, ask around the neighborhood. Google is of little help. In an age of increasingly digital existence, where ChatGPT professes to know all the answers and social media serves as sole authenticator of any activity, offline-only experiences remind me what it means to be a member of human society.

“Do not be angry with the rain; it simply does not know how to fall upwards.”
— Vladimir Nabokov.

Dear you,

It’s been a few weeks, how have you been? Did your daughter eventually get to school on time? Did those orders of fresh phở reach your hungry customers safely? As for you, how long did it take for your nice leather shoes to completely dry? I’m sorry that your poncho broke and water poured onto your leg.

I’m doing fine — soaked pant hems, dirty tires, and a tinge of stress having to drive under the drizzle — but three decades in Saigon have honed my resilience in the face of the city’s monsoon. Now, I can catch even the most microscopic whiff of petrichor moments before the rain comes, and I’ve long etched into my skin a reminder not to take off my raincoat too early, even though for one moment it might seem like the pouring has ceased. A spare pair of flip-flops in my bike’s trunk to deploy in place of hard-to-dry footwear, an ability to unfurl my poncho in less than 30 seconds, and a sense of acceptance that the water is a welcome element of life.

I apologize for not getting your name, but I doubt you’ll remember me, like how I don’t remember you, apart from visual and auditory slivers that come and go as time marinates them in my memory. A Hello Kitty slipper, the ding of a phone reminder, a grin as warm as the sun of summer. Would we be friends had we encountered one another elsewhere in this 10-million-people town?

For a fleeting fifteen-minute while in our lives, we were here, huddling in the cavernous space under this bridge that crosses over the canal, like a shoal of remoras beneath a whale. We were here, united by our need to wait out the battering of rain, just imprudent enough to forget to bring a raincoat in the face of the ferocious southern rainy season, and just freezing-cold enough to not care about the irked beeping of incoming traffic admonishing us for taking up street space.

I’ve been on both sides of the beeping. I’ve nonchalantly stopped along the road under an underpass to hide from the monsoon and I’ve honked at gaggles of rain-hiders who slowed down my commute in a time of urgency. What I’ve learned is that everybody forgets as soon as the rainwater stops falling. Enduring the pitter-patter of a Saigon rain is a stressful daily ritual these days, so I consciously remind myself to practice empathy every time I look up to the endless sky and drops of rain stare down at me. There is a certain camaraderie that grows within those who have undergone trying times together, and it was absolutely my pleasure to have experienced our fifteen minutes’ worth of camaraderie together.

Yours torrentially,

Rain-hider.

In Chợ Lớn, every Tết, amid the aroma of burning joss sticks and an onslaught of red-color decorations is the echoing beats of lion dance instruments. For generations of Saigoneer, the presence of múa lân, or lion dance, is a sign of festivity and celebration.

On the morning of March 30, Thanh Niên reports, at a ceremony, the Hồ Chí Minh City Department of Culture and Sports announced the official decision made by the Vietnam Ministry of Culture, Sports, and Tourism to welcome Saigon’s lion dance performance art as the latest national intangible cultural heritage.

Though it’s often known by the short hand múa lân, the art form can feature a number of different dances by performers in lion, kirin or dragon costumes. Some versions of múa lân incorporate elements of acrobatics as dancers balance on tall pillars or play ball.

Hoa Vietnamese communities believe that dances performed by mythological creatures symbolizing strength, intellect, and prosperity would ward off unlucky spirits and bring great fortunes. Thus, lion dances are often organized on important occasions like Lunar New Year, groundbreaking ceremonies, or even launching parties for new businesses.

During the recent event, the department also officially recognized seven venues in Saigon as new city-level historical-cultural relics. These include Tân Định Market, Mariamman Hindu Temple, and Trưng Vương High School (D1); An Khánh Pagoda, Long Bình Pagoda, and Long Hòa Pagoda (Thủ Đức City); and the campus of Saigon University (D5). Including the new additions, HCMC currently has 200 such locations.

Being recognized as a national intangible cultural heritage would help emphasize the important role of lion dance as part of Saigon’s diverse ethnic makeup and encourage further actions by the people and policymakers to preserve and promote it. As of 2023, the list consists of 485 entities from across Vietnam, from the nationally famous Bát Tràng ceramic craft to lesser-known bánh pía Sóc Trăng.

In Saigon, some previous cultural heritages that made the list include Tết Nguyên Tiêu, the music performance art đờn ca tài tử, and the Nghinh Ông Festival.

In recent years, stories about climate change's impacts on the lives of Vietnamese people have been increasingly making the news.

According to the Ministry of Natural Resources and Environment, Vietnam is among the six countries most severely affected by climate change worldwide. In rural areas, extreme weather often manifests as natural disasters such as floods, while in urban areas like Saigon, prolonged heatwaves pose the greatest challenge.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

As the dry season sets in, city dwellers find themselves battling record-breaking temperatures. Heat rises from the asphalt, blending with vehicle exhaust and musty fumes from narrow alleys to form dense and suffocating clouds of air.

In response, people rush to air-conditioned cafes and shopping centers, seeking refuge from the relentless heat. Those who must venture outside wrap themselves in jackets, masks, or hoodies. But not everyone has the privilege to easily escape the scorching sun.

Photo by Cao Nhân.

Among those most affected are informal workers in urban areas. Jobs like construction, street vending, motorbike taxi driving, or garbage collection often lead to prolonged exposure to the scorching sun.

The Vietnamese Ministry of Labor has advised outdoor workers to rest in cool places and stay hydrated to prevent heatstroke and reduce body temperature. While scientifically sound, these recommendations overlook the harsh reality that shade and clean water are often luxuries for those working outside.

Unassuming water coolers and messages of kindness. Photos by Cao Nhân, Trinh Nguyễn, Paul Christiansen.

A day’s worth of bottled water can cost as much as a light meal and is cumbersome for those constantly on the move. Yet access to free, clean drinking water is limited.

Fortunately, much like mushrooms sprouting after the rain, “grassroots” water sources have appeared during dry spells in every corner of the city. Bearing friendly messages like “Free drinking water” or “Cool water for travelers,” stainless steel containers and insulated buckets dot the sidewalks to serve as mobile wellsprings.

Anonymous benefactors. Photo via VnExpress.

Operating on a beautiful principle of “those with excess give, those in need take,” kind-hearted benefactors fill these stations with iced tea, filtered water, and sometimes even snacks. People can stop by to quench their thirst and cool down for free. There are no thank-yous, no observers, just thousands of silent exchanges happening daily.

This heart-warming practice is not new. In the rural southern regions of the past, residents would set up leaf huts, water jars, and coconut ladles along the roads. Travelers and neighbors could stop to rest and refresh. While the jars may now be replaced with modern materials, the spirit of local generosity continues to flourish.

Clay jars were often used to collect rainwater for daily use and to offer refreshment to passersby. Photo via Phụ Nữ Online.

In response to the severe heat, the city government is piloting more public water stations. Until then, these unmarked containers will continue their humble legacy: providing water and support to ease the hardships of daily life.

Free water pitchers provide blue-collar workers with much-needed refreshment. Photo via Dân Trí.

This article was originally published in 2024.

It is a street, not a river, that comes to mind when people talk about vibrant fish in Saigon. Located in District 5, Lưu Xuân Tín Street is only approximately 500 meters long, but it is home to dozens of aquarium businesses.

From just a few stores at the beginning, Lưu Xuân Tín is now home to rows of aquarium supply shops. Photo by Đỗ Anh Chương.

The short thoroughfare is more than 40 years old, known amongst enthusiasts as the oldest street for ornamental fish in the city.

The street entrance. Photo by Đỗ Anh Chương.

Lưu Xuân Tín Street is not only a well-known place for commerce, but it is also a popular tourist destination in District 5. Aquarium aficionados in Saigon and merchants from all around Vietnam come here to buy aquatic pets and fish-keeping items.

“There were only a few stores when I initially visited, then more and more [appeared]. Fish dealers gradually took up residence here, transforming it into an actual market,” Đặng Thị Thủy, a local beverage vendor, tells me. She has been selling refreshments here since 1992.

Cô Thủy runs the street's refreshment stop. Photo by Trần Duy Minh.

Traders often sit around her drink stall to conduct business. “My place is kind of a gathering point for aquarium businesses,” she proudly shares.

Fish merchants discuss their trade and prepare fish for customers right on the street. Photo by Trần Duy Minh.

Many merchants who do not have brick-and-mortar stores here cut fish deals on the street. “I don't have a store and I sell aquarium fish wholesale,” Phạm Kiều Oanh, an aquarium fish merchant, says. “I've been doing this for nearly 30 years.”

Tank maintenance is a constant task at these ornamental fish stores. Photos by Trần Duy Minh.

In the beginning, Oanh started her business by selling feeder fishes here. Then her trading network grew bigger, and she started selling aquarium fish wholesale.

Apart from aquatic animals, shops also sell a range of knick-knacks so customers can decorate their tanks any way they see fit. Photo by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

While there are no official business hours, Lưu Xuân Tín Street is open every day from as early as 4am to as late as 5pm. Traders, buyers, and sellers arrive on the street early in the morning to start a new working day.

Photos by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

“I come here to work every day between 4 and 8am. I eat breakfast and have a cup of coffee here, then I meet with the buyers and direct my employees to deliver the fish to fulfill the orders,” Oanh shares.

Fish nets for fish, not fish nets for humans. Photo by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

Oanh previously worked as an embroiderer. Her older brother then introduced her to the aquarium fish industry. She and her husband are both working in the ornamental fish market, which provides the majority of their family's income.

Trays of aquatic plants. Photo by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

“This business does not make me rich, but it allows me to live well and support my family. I'm 57 years old now. No one wants to hire me because I am too elderly, this business is a good fit for me,” she says.

Scores of vivid fish species are available for purchase here. Photos by Đỗ Anh Chương.

Oanh runs an aquarium fish farm from her house in District 8. She returns home to take care of the fish when she's not on the street cutting deals and confirming orders.

Photos by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

“Every day, I take care of the fish as if they were my children. I have been engaged in this business for a long time, and I love it. I don't want to change to another job,” Oanh says.

Goldfish in giant bags on the pavement. Photo by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

While the formation of this "aquarium street" was a spontaneous development, its existence has brought about positive impacts on the livelihood of Saigoneers living in the area, whether they are directly involved in the ornamental fish trade.

“I started my business here when I was 28 years old, and I am now 60 years old. My drink stall has many regulars and is well-visited. Thus, my life is nice and stable,” Thủy claims.

Photos by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên and Đỗ Anh Chương.

Even when she is not present, her regulars frequently come to get drinks on their own and then settle their "tab" later. "I don't have to worry about my drink stand, and I sometimes just leave it there to let it run on its own," she says with a smile.

Photos by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

Thủy has been selling drinks on this street for so long that she has gained a lot of knowledge about the aquarium trade here. When new dealers arrive, she is always happy to help out.

Aquatic plants to be grown in tanks. Photo by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

"I often advise newcomers on how to buy aquarium fish cheaply and efficiently here," she explains. "I love this street because everyone here is cordial. We love and support each other whether we are buyers or sellers, rich or poor."

What is this? Houses for fish? Photos by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

For some long-term members of Lưu Xuân Tín's little fishy enclave, the street has become much more than just a location to set up shop and gain an income.

A budding fish-keeper accompanies their dad on his morning fish run. Photo by Trần Duy Minh.

"This place is like my second family, and the people here are like my family members. Talking with them is pleasant and fun. The time I spend here is the happiest of my day," Oanh shares.

This article was first published in 2022.

When you get a new toy, it's only reasonable to take it out to play with as often as possible.

Thus, I’ve been finding excuses to ride the HCMC Metro frequently over the last few weeks. This past weekend, I was curious to experience the atmosphere of the first ride of the day; and, because I couldn’t convince any of my friends to meet me at the station before 5 am, I went solo.

A special thrill of metro systems generally, and Saigon’s in particular, is that they provide the perfect music listening environment. It’s madness to listen to music if you’re driving in the city, and even if you’re walking, on a Grab, or even a bus, the city’s sonorous white noise makes music an afterthought. But the calm, quiet metro allows you to foreground your tunes of choice. 

Photo by Paul Christiansen.

But what should you listen to?

In offering Metro playlist advice, I’m not going to bother suggesting particular songs or artists; my niched and dated tastes would certainly fall on deaf (if not Def Jux) ears. Rather, after fumbling through my iPod on the route to Bến Xe Miền Đông and back, I’d like to share a few broad suggestions:

Avoid nostalgia. It can be tempting to reach for favorite songs from formative days that call to mind comfortable memories, but in this context, it doesn’t make sense. Your brain will shudder at the juxtaposition of familiar emotions with the novel experience of swooshing through the cityscape surrounded by scintillating surfaces. Stick to new, or new-to-you music.

Prioritize lyrics. The uniquely quiet setting and freedom from distraction afford ample focus on lyrics. So while you can press play on a jazzy instrumental, go for something whose lyrics you can absorb fully. You might discover profundity lurking in a line you’d otherwise let whisk pass like a racing Metro train on the horizon. Allow me to go back on what I promised and suggest the Silver Jews because of singer-songwriter David Berman: “An anchor lets you see the river move.” 

Go global. Suggesting music unrelated to Vietnam may at first sound odd coming from a publication invested in deep explorations of Vietnamese culture, history and lifestyles. Yet, the metro represents the nation’s further integration into an amorphous global sphere where concepts of unique culture clutch the fringes of multinational touchpoints. The very concept of a metro system is not Vietnamese, nor is it of any singular nation or people. Let your listening be the same. Japanese city pop, Finnish metal, Jamaican reggae, Polish polka; let your ears hurdle through geographic barriers. 

I don’t think I’d be able to make a list of best places in Saigon to listen to music, because the only destination I’d know to put on it would be the Saigon Metro. Maybe, it's not convenient for most people’s routines or commutes, but it’s damn ideal for that, and thus we can consider the entire project an undertaking to promote art while in the city.

Is “out with the old, in with the new” the new motto when it comes to Saigon's real estate scene?

Saigon used to be full of old apartment buildings; some were built in the 1950s or 1960s while others could be dated back to French colonial times. Many of these buildings have been inhabited by the same families over generations. People know each other. It is almost like a vertical village with shops, markets, restaurants, etc. However, in recent months, more and more of these structures are being torn down due to either safety reasons or to make way for snazzy new real estate projects.

View into the courtyard and hallways of an old apartment building in District 4 (2013).

The photos in this series have been taken between 2008 and 2013; by now, some of the buildings portrayed here have already ceased to exist. These include the Hotel President on Trần Hưng Đạo Street, a former apartment building reserved for American GI’s during the war, and the Eden Building right at the corner of Đồng Khởi and Lê Lợi streets. The former was a magnificent French apartment block with a specific design seeking to keep the its interior cool even on a hot summer day.

The Eden also bore witness to a significant event of the past: it was once home to the AP office where famous war photographer Nick Ut filed the famous photo of Kim Phúc, the girl in the Napalm attack.

Step inside the mysterious realm of Saigon's heritage buildings through the photos below:

A resident of the building using her laptop in the dark.

Residents walk down the makeshift steel staircase in the apartment building formerly known as “Hotel President” in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (2013).

A young couple looking out of their window into the hallway of Saigon’s appartment building known as Hotel President. Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (2008).

A sofa standing in the hallway of the “President Hotel” an old decaying apprtment block in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (2013).

A man doing exercises in the old appartment building formerly known as Hotel President. Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (2013).

The outside of an old apartment building alongside Saigon's Trần Hưng Đạo Street, District 5 (2013).

A man standing checking his cellphone in the hallway of an old Saigon apartment building formerly known as Hotel President (2013).

An artist in his apartment in Saigon’s Eden building. Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (2010).

Christian Berg is a documentary photographer based in Ho Chi Minh City. You can find more of his work on his Instagram account here.

This article was originally published in 2018.

As my palm felt the glossy wrapping paper for my Secret Santa gift, I was transported to my early childhood Christmases — filled with warmth, wonder, and the bubbling discomfort of class insecurities.

My yonder years the mid-2000s were a peculiar time — an era of dial-up internet, floppy discs, knee-high jeans, bad haircuts, and middle-class aspirations ripe for the arrival of western trends and consumption habits.

Though Christmas had been nothing new in Saigon, especially within the Catholic community, it wasn’t until around this point that the holiday really took off among the Vietnamese public, its celebration a patchwork quilt of traditions — some borrowed and some improvised. Slowly but surely, the festivities took over local streets: homefront nativity scenes interspersed with elaborated mall installations and green-red decors flying off the shelves of business-savvy mom-and-pops. “Gift-giving” became the buzzword of the season through the sheer dedication of eager salesmen.

Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

Despite not knowing all the details, my kid self was intuitively thrilled with the vague concept of Christmas, as I was exposed to too many Disney Channel specials and was convinced that it would transform this period of my mundane life into a remarkable, or even yet, magical one. When my handicraft teacher asked my class to create Christmas cards for one another, I wrote the most heartfelt paragraph the vocabulary of a second grader could dispense.

Imagine my disappointment when I realized that in fact, unlike Disney, we weren’t all in this together, and that Christmas miracles were rather pricey.

Before the big day, I had dropped plenty of hints in hope that the man in the north, or at least my parents, would make my wish come true: I had strived for months to maintain my status as a top student, therefore I deserved a new Hello Kitty or Barbie backpack, especially one of the latest and trendiest models.

Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

On Christmas night, I left the window open, fearing that Santa would be confused by my Vietnamese house’s non-existent chimney. To my bewilderment, he arrived by early evening through the neighborhood’s front gate. My neighbor’s kids, dressed in matching clothes, squealed with delight as he laughed, handed them their gifts from the crumpled nylon bag and posed for several photos. It was his only pitstop in the neighborhood for the night.

By all account, he was markedly different from the stereotypical depiction of the portly and pink-cheeked Santa Claus. This was a scrawny man with distinctly tan skin and dark eyebrows that contrasted with the faux beard he was spotting. Plus, he was riding a Honda Dream, the same bike that my mom rode and not a deer of any kind. But I didn’t care about logistics or biology, I was upset that I didn’t get anything.

Eventually, I realized that wasn’t Santa culturally adaptive, but a performer paid to play a role for the night. Yet, the oddly transactional nature of it didn’t deter me from wishful thinking — a present was a present. By the time the next Christmas rolled around, I had already concocted a plan to ask my mother for a visit from Santa like some sort of bizarre celebrity meet-and-greet.

Visiting Diamond Plaza is a Saigon Christmas staple. Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

My mother, as the practical person that she was, plainly explained to me how as a family we could not afford the service. My anxiety was only soothed when a compromise was made — we would visit the big-box mall decorations for pictures and enjoy the festive atmosphere, free of charge. Mom made sure we got bundled up in our best attires to take photographs with the Christmas tree that towered over the entrance at Diamond Plaza, glittering with equally giant plastic ornaments, colorful lights, and artificial snowflakes. I was allowed one small offering, a tiny desk-size Christmas tree with miniature trinkets from a church market. It was not the full theatrics of a paid showman, but enough for me to brag with classmates for weeks to come.

As time passed, my Christmases became less about a jolly man squeezing through chimneys and more about finding the best deals at year-end sales. My family’s feast grew a little fancier as the budget allowed more wreaths and log cakes. But memories of my mom and our modest celebrations remain and became more special over the years, knowing now from paying my own utility bills, that my mother provided the best she could at the time.

Perhaps after all, the real Christmas miracle was the parental love we learn to accept along the way.

Christmas is so globally celebrated that even in Saigon, as the coldest time of the year approaches, you can hear Christmas hymms echoing from homes in the alley, and spot houses adorned with Christmas trees, Santas, snowmen, regardless of their cultural relevance to Vietnamese culture. For me, one of the activities that truly embodies this global spirit of Christmas is watching Home Alone (1990). 

I first watched Home Alone in the early 2000s, when I was around 6 or 7 years old. At the time, the only way to see the film in Vietnam was to buy a bootleg copy from DVD stores, which my parents did for the whole family to enjoy. Back then, I didn’t know how to use a DVD player, so whenever I wanted to watch the film during Christmas or at any other time, I had to ask my dad to start it for me. Eventually, my whole family would join in, simply out of convenience since there’s only one TV in the house, and also it’s a fun family movie. This turned watching Home Alone into a family bonding experience for us during Christmas.

Furthermore, what makes this film so special for a Vietnamese kid, despite it being an American movie, is that for a child growing up in Saigon, where the weather is warm year-round, Home Alone was my first time seeing snow, something one only finds in areas distant from Saigon like Sapa. Which makes seeing snow on the TV screen even more magical, as to this day, I’ve never experienced snowy weather in person.

As time has passed, technology and the internet have made it easier for kids to access movies and explore the world around them, so they might view Home Alone as just another fun Christmas movie. But for me, and probably other Vietnamese around my age, the movie — with the hassle of buying bootleg DVDs and a weather phenomenon that seemed almost nonexistent in Vietnam — greatly conveys the Christmas spirit to a Vietnamese kid, even though it's entirely American.

As a city that is perpetually either sweltering hot or halfway under water, Saigon weather rarely includes cool breezes or overcast mornings. And yet, over the past few weeks, the city has experienced a handful of chilly mornings and soft sunlight, a welcome change from the usual heat and humidity that often appears at sunrise and lasts throughout the day.

While this cool, fall-like weather doesn't last long — temperatures tend to return to scorching by mid-morning — take a stroll through Saigon around daybreak and you'll find some of the city's residents enjoying this brief respite from the Saigon heat.

A night shift security guard takes a smoke break after the graveyard shift.

A local patrolman gets ready for the day's work.

A xe ôm driver reads the day's newspaper while waiting for customers.

A xe ôm driver catches up on current events.

Passengers wait for their bus on Phạm Ngũ Lão Street.

An elderly man lights incense to place at an outdoor altar.

Commuters wait for a ride at the bus station on Hàm Nghi Street.

Students on the way to school.

Sunrise over Bùi Viện Street.

Trần Hưng Đạo Street, empty at daybreak, is filled with commuters during the morning and evening rush hours.

This article was originally published in 2017.

Local streets are buckling under the pressure of Saigon's ever-increasing population density, here are the city's most frequently jammed roads, according to the municipal Department of Transportation. 

Nguyễn Tất Thành Street. Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

Connecting Districts 4 and 7, Nguyễn Tất Thành Street has experienced 811 traffic jams in the first nine months of the year, making it Saigon's most congested road, according to the HCMC Department of Transportation.

The current figure places Nguyễn Tất Thành Street on pace to beat its city-leading 978 traffic jams last year, according to Tuổi Trẻ. Serving as a major route for those from the southern part of the city entering and leaving downtown, the 3-kilometer road suffers morning and evening rush hour traffic.

Observers note that drivers on Nguyễn Tất Thành frequently ignore traffic rules and ride on the curb, impacting local businesses and nearby homes. The road currently operates at 140% capacity, meaning any minor accident causes further congestion chaos. Rainy season and periods when schools are in session make matters even worse.

The situation for Nguyễn Tất Thành is similar for the rest of the city's most traffic-prone areas. Specifically, in the first nine months of the year, Xô Viết Nghệ-Tĩnh has experienced 615 traffic jams; the Đinh Bộ Lĩnh-Bạch Đằng intersection has had 588; Trường Chinh Street between Âu Cơ Street and Tân Kỳ Tân Quý Street has had 569 and the An Phú intersection has had 554.

Regular traffic observed on Nguyễn Tất Thành Street. Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

Remedies for the curb-clogging commotion have been proposed, but currently, no solutions are in sight. The most recent plan put forth in 2015 proposed expanding the road from the four-lane road's current width of 14 meters to 37 or 46 meters, depending on the section. Unfortunately, delays and funding issues have thwarted the approved plan. Smaller measures such as banning large trucks and parking have proved ineffective.

A variety of street-widening proposals have also been put forth for some of the most affected areas, though citizens are acclimated to inaction. In the meantime, officials are pushing the use of apps, websites, and digital signs to share information about traffic conditions that can influence drivers' plans.

In addition to the previously noted causes of congestion, Saigon's growing number of drivers, particularly cars, is making the situation worse. The city is home to over 8.4 million motorbikes and one million cars, an increase of more than five million over the past 15 years. This year alone, car registrations have risen by 7% and motorbike registrations by 4.5%.

Third place (noun): A space outside of one's home and workplace, where people meet and interact socially.

Where do we go to find a place that feels like home, but isn’t?

Not home, not the office — a third place is a space that stands apart from daily life, where one feel comfortable enough to connect with new people and form new relationships.

Sociologist Ray Oldenburg first coined the term “third place,” describing it as a cultural incubator where shared values take root. It’s a space where people can converse with others, express their individual identities, and find a sense of “belonging” through platonic and romantic bonding. The third place manifests in various forms, constantly evolving to fit the fabric of each society, whether it’s a neighborhood bar, a cozy used book store, or even a temple.

Saigon boasts more than 200 bridges.

In Vietnam’s major cities, rapid economic development and urbanization have led to the shrinking of public works and free communal spaces like parks, libraries, or playgrounds — the most natural and accessible third places for people from all walks of life. But human connection is resilient, and informal third places have emerged in the leftover cracks of urban infrastructure.

Workers resting under the Ba Son bridges.

In 2019, Russian photographer Nikolai Sokolov moved to Vietnam from Saint Petersburg. His work gradually shifted from abstract and landscape photography to street photography, drawn by “the people and the life here.” In the summer of 2024, he spent his time capturing everyday moments beneath Saigon’s many bridges.

“I’ve traveled all over Vietnam, and I often found myself sheltering under bridges to avoid the sun or rain. I started noticing that many people were sitting under these bridges, especially in the south. There was something special about them — each came with a different story. One day, a man asked me to take his picture, and from that moment, I knew I wanted to document the lives of these people. Each face, each gaze offered a story. And I wanted to share it.”

The first photo of the series.

Neglected and overlooked, bridges are far from anyone’s idea of a traditional third place, and the commuters who usually use them are passing through out of necessity. But in Nikolai Sokolov’s black-and-white photos, these anonymous bridges (though if you’re sharp, you might recognize them) come alive as tranquil yet vibrant sanctuaries. Beneath rigid concrete structures, rough patches of ground are transformed into playgrounds, gathering spots for friends and family, or simply a place to rest in the midst of the city’s constant motion.

Free-range ducklings, now available at your nearest bridge.

The sweet joy of swinging in the shade on a hot afternoon.

The first rule of cockfighting club is: you do not talk about cockfighting club.

Birds of a feather surely flock together.

“Dude, you cheating?”

Future stars of the national team?

Sisters and best friends.

Just middle-aged people casually flexing spines healthier than yours.

Dressed to impress.

“I already won. No point arguing now.”

Better safe than sorry.

Most definitely a good boy.

The bridge-side tango.

For some, this is the first place.

“What kind of school awards did you get this year?” “I barely passed, uncle!”

You can practically hear the squeak in this photo.

Cigarette smoke and dust.

Who’s coming in last this round?

Follow Nikolai Sokolov's work here. 

“In summer, the song sings itself.”
― William Carlos Williams

Summers have always stood for something. With #bratsummer, #eurosummer, #hotgirlsummer and more having come and pass, I am proposing #saigonsummer.

Like many of my peers in the Vietnamese diaspora, no matter where I'm at in life, I return to Vietnam in the summer. Under the glorious heat, I waste the day away eating, sweating, shopping, people-watching, reconnecting with my heritage, and falling in love with the city. It's a place interwoven with noise and chaos; you either despise it or love it relentlessly. Fortunately, I love Saigon. 

My regular summer day involves waking up bright and early, dabbling in the cool morning air before the sun and street swelter. I might cycle around the neighborhood, oftentimes stopping to grab fresh flowers or groceries while greeting my elderly neighbors who have the same idea. I might make a silly little drink (most likely a matcha latte) and have breakfast with my family, before leaving on a trusty Grab bike to get to work. On the commute, I pass fellow spirited Saigoneers also rushing to get through the city’s signature traffic. I linger on the possibilities of what their day might look like. Trees, from tamarind to hoa phượng, graciously provide shade at every red traffic light. At work, I glimpse how “true” Saigoneers live, my coworkers a gateway to the heart of the city. After work, the multitude of shops, cafes, restaurants, clubs, and activities catering to young people herald in the most amusing portion of my day. A little shopping at one of the many compelling shops selling locally designed and produced clothing is irresistible. The robust coffee culture encourages a momentary pause to people-watch and soak in the city’s energy. The best food can come from the most unassuming locations before late-night dance and alcohol spots that simply get it beckon. 

Everything in Saigon seems to teeter between tradition and modern, the latter a creative undercurrent bubbling amongst the youth. As such, every summer I discover something new or different about the city: last summer’s was art fairs, and this summer’s was the abundance of underground raves and weekly pop-ups. 

Amongst all the leisure and indulgence, you might get in touch with previously unknown things about yourself.

I feel it standing before the steps of my ancestral home, my parents and siblings beside me.

I feel it eating tào phớ, a dessert of homemade silken tofu with ginger, lime and sugar, under the shade of the aged starfruit tree my grandpa planted when he was young.

I feel it when I have my palms together holding an incense, eyes closed, on my knees paying my respects to temples and altars of those who’ve come before.

Graphic by Trường Dĩ.