A man holding a sign with my name greets us at the Hanoi airport and drives us to our hotel in the Old Quarter. As we approach the city, motor scooters appear gradually, like raindrops before a storm. A lady in a blue dress with a baby strapped to her back rounds the corner at full speed. Her Hello Kitty helmet has a cutout in the back to allow for a ponytail. Businessmen in suits and facemasks zip in and out of traffic, checking their phones and lighting cigarettes. A man with 50 plastic red chairs secured to his Suzuki slows down to avoid colliding with an old woman transporting an enormous basket of lychees.
The scooter monsoon rapidly descends on our van. Hondas, Yamahas, families of four with purses and school bags, old men carrying fishing rods and lumber. Everyone weaving in and out of cars, flying through intersections, passing storefronts selling shoes, candy, dried fish, luggage and tea leaves. I grab my daughter’s hand. “Are you seeing this?”
Hanoi is a city with more than seven million people and an estimated four million motorbikes. With the exception of a few major thoroughfares, there are neither traffic lights nor stop signs. Watching the traffic from an air-conditioned van is mesmerizing. Crossing the street as a pedestrian is an entirely different basket of lychees.
We pull up in front of the hotel – aptly named La Siesta – and our American friends run out to greet us. Some are much taller than when we last saw them. We hug and laugh and hug again. “Look at where we are!” we all exclaim in various ways. “This is crazy!”
We drop our bags, grab water bottles, and set off to meet Viet, a hired local who will take us on a culinary adventure. “How will we cross the street?” I ask my friend Jason, in the calmest voice I can muster. “Just stay right behind me,” he responds, with the confidence one acquires after spending 24 hours in Hanoi.
The streets are loud and smell like grilled onions, petrol and papaya. Jason yells over his shoulder, “Everyone grab a kid.” I reach for a hand and squeeze it tight. I say a prayer: I apologize for stepping out into traffic and killing this child. Please forgive me.
We step off the curb in twos, like square dancers in a mosh pit. Scooters are barreling towards us from all sides. I focus on the back of Jason’s head, and pull the child closer. Somehow, magically, we make it.
We find Viet and eat rice noodles with pork belly. An hour later, over pho and lotus flower tea, my friend Lindsy says, “I think of Hanoi traffic as an organism. When we enter it, we are part of it. And when we exit, we leave it behind.”
Over the next two days, we cross many streets together. My prayer changes slightly: I still don’t want to kill this child but I really want to try the banh mi. Please forgive me.
