SYMPHONY OF THE CITY

If you are a traveler to Hanoi for the first time, its chaotic soundscape will overwhelm you. Millions of motorized vehicles hum together in a cacophony of overused honks and rubber wheels rolling on asphalt.

If you are a foreigner in Hanoi, you probably have not noticed…

Storefront on Hàng Khoai Street. Photograph by An Hoang.

... the prolonged call of midnight street vendors Aaai xôi lạc bánh khúc đâyy Whooo wants peanut sticky rice always made me feel as if someone were tracing their finger around the rim of my heart, filling me with an inexplicable sadness. These vendors typically carry on the back seat of their bikes a basket of sticky rice, buns, or sweet potatoes – poor people’s starch – walking along the already asleep streets as they chant their late-night call for customers. Why aren’t they sleeping why aren’t they resting who would buy sticky rice at this hour of the night was it calling or was it wailing? Ai in Vietnamese means who but also means sorrow. The invitation was imbued with melancholic mourning for a human fate.

...the sound of food vendors prepping for the day. Waking up to the sound of chopping scallion had become almost ritualistic as I grew up next to Hanoi’s most famous bún ốc escargot vermicelli vendor. In between the rhythmic musicality of iron cleavers on wooden chopping boards, erupted some bursts of spirited laughter sprinkled with some playful vulgarity.

…the sound of thousands of chopsticks clattering together as restaurants manually wash their dishes at night. The chant of bamboo chopsticks is unmistakably warmer and deeper while plastic ones produce a crisper sound. My lullaby.

But what I retain for myself is a completely different soundscape. The sound of Hanoi to me...

...is the engine sound of my dad’s motorcycle. If no human voices are the same and all pianos have unique tones, I believe that every engine also has a distinct sound. Dad’s 27-year-old bike did not roar aggressively but rumbled in a steady rhythm. Amidst zillion motorbikes, I could always tell bố về rồi, bố đến rồi, bố đây rồi. Dad is home, Dad arrived, Dad is here, Dad is coming to the rescue: from my boring day at school, from my mom’s anger, from me squatting at the bus stop with a twitching migraine, from me forgetting my schoolbag at home. Hearing his engine, I immediately feel safe and protected.

...is the sound of Grandma reciting the Buddhist script, her wooden prayer beads, the constant drumming on the wooden fish accompanied by an interval of the bell singing “boong”. I made myself small in the corner like a puppy, quietly listening to the Sanskrit script that I did not understand. Those peculiar moments of tranquility. A sense of stability that I can no longer lean on, a sense of security that was forever lost and can only be retraced in my distant memory of Grandma.

...is the sound of Grandma grinding betel leaves and areca nut in her mini mortar and pestle set. She was a rare Viet woman who still kept this tradition. After a while, she would habitually let out a long sigh. I was never sure whether her sigh was from physical tiredness or from a long life with more suffering and loneliness than happiness.

...is the ambiance noise of conversations in Hanoian accent, my dad, my aunt, and uncle. There was something extremely hà nội about these conversations, the conversation between old generations of Hanoians. They maintain a sense of calmness interjected with witty sarcasm, a kind of comical gentleness fused with deep insights into life.

...is the sound of my own footsteps at night or at five in the morning when the streets are asleep, I hear my own wandering feet.

Just me and my Hanoi.

"... amidst the mix of memories of a life spent in a different world and of a previous self, I couldn’t help occasionally drifting back to my native Vietnamese."