During my fourth winter of university, I
travelled with my classmates to the suburbs of Hanoi to an old village called
Cự Đà. The cool and humid air of winter in northern Vietnam always creates a
magical feeling. Blue smoke emitting out of kitchen chimneys, the toiling of
black-toothed and white-haired old lady street vendors that I can never forget.
The roads in the village were so narrow, still made with the same red bricks
lain during the French colonial era. Homes made of solid beehive-style bricks
were still preserved after decades of bombs, rain, and sun. I imagined those
“good old days” of my parents, and their parents as the scenery and I began a
slow and steady romance.
Enjoy.
