I Walk In Pairs of running shoes

I met an American traveler while in Cambridge, not Massachusetts but the city in Cambridgeshire. The man recognized we were students from abroad, and with impeccable northern dialect, he started speaking to us mainly in Vietnamese. A native of California, he has been to Asia 7 years ago, picked up the language in less than a year, and was certainly not a stranger to Hanoi.

Walking with hands in his coat pockets, he recalled one moment to another, such as how he used to ride a motorcycle and do stunts on empty streets at night. Along with his pals, he roamed the Old Quarter until they all rested at the city’s now remaining tramlines. “Hanoi streets were not crowded back then” he said “I could pull a wheelie, and that was the most freedom I ever felt after days of stress”. Now at thirty, he said he was already too old for doing stunts with a cheeky grin.

Though much less daring, my first heart racing moment with motorcycle was with my high school mate. Newly mastered her motor scooter, my friend had me in the back seat, headed to Ta Hien street to order “nem chua” (crispy sour pork) while adults around us drank beers. When crossing Hanoi’s most chaotic streets, her scooter lost balance and we felt on the concrete. But we hastily picked ourselves up, afraid that an officer would ask for our IDs. Again both of us blended in an amalgam of people: retirees and under age students, manual workers and CEOs, like sardines in blasting currents that never stop.

The man talked about a failed urban plan to close a night market for modern food chains. Thousands of people, even executives in tailored suits, have rallied to protect street vendors from being replaced by McDonalds or KFCs. The construction was cancelled as far as I know. From where my classmate and I had “nem chua” that afternoon, young kids were rushing after their parents to prepare food vendors for the night. In the summer heat, smoke from each stove went up the air, dissolving houses and vehicles from behind into parts of an old, withered photograph.

Our stories continued. On the cobbled roads of Cambridge, we listened and shared our side of moments passed, unbeknownst to each other, as vagabonds on Hanoi streets. I have a feeling that the Old Quarter is only for the young hearts. We stay as small children and leave with lifelong lessons: Be open to adventures. Learn the local language. The American smiled. I think he was feeling the same thing without saying a word in his language or mine.