The 50-year anniversary has finally arrived. It’s quite early, and on the way to the train station I can spot people getting ready for the day—I see traditional clothes on top of horses, and people looking around for the best spots.

I wonder what will happen.

I get my first taste when I arrive at the station. The music is so loud I can hear it from the parking lot, and everywhere I look, I’m surrounded by red t-shirts with yellow stars. As soon as I step in, I’m handed a small Vietnamese flag to decorate my backpack, and I discover that it wasn’t just loud music—it was loud, off-key karaoke. I love how hard they go with karaoke here in Vietnam.

I get on the train, and to my surprise, I’m alone in the sleeper coach. That wonderful, relaxing moment lasts only for a stop. Three English teachers join me. At first, I’m a bit bothered to have lost my silent retreat, but in the end, I really enjoy the conversation and learning more about what living and working in a small city in the Ninh Binh area is like for a first-class immigrant—AKA, an expat.

I arrive in Hanoi, and unexpectedly, I’m not choked by the humidity. Wandering around the city is not as oppressive as it has been so far, and the drops of sweat just stay beneath the surface. I look for some military commemoration or parade, but I think those are reserved mainly for Ho Chi Minh City, and I must content myself with all the people around showing off the colors of the country—50 shades of the Vietnamese flag.

Joy is in the air, and I can’t keep the smile off my face watching the kids play around, families celebrating, and people posing for photos.

And then something happens that really shouldn’t surprise me anymore: the family you see below stops me for a group photo. You can’t imagine how grateful the dad is—he shakes my hand a thousand times, but the smile on everyone’s face is the best thank-you I could get.

Time passes by—and so do the steps. I approach the old quarter, and for the first time on this trip, I’m not that bothered by the tourists. Compared to Ho Chi Minh City, Hanoi has cozier vibes. Even the tourist areas feel way more genuine than District 1 in Ho Chi Minh. I kinda enjoy the atmosphere, and I linger—people-watching and sipping beer.

This time it’s not the sweat making my skin wet, it’s the sky. From my table, I can see some umbrellas floating around, but only when I step outside in my Birkenstocks—without my water-repellent armor—do I realize it’s pouring. And in the next 30 minutes, I’m soaked like a sponge that fell in a full bathtub.

Even an umbrella doesn’t help when you're wearing sandals. I think I have frogs on my feet.

After a while, I decide it’s time to pull back and grab a taxi back to the homestay.

Since it’s supposed to be rainy tomorrow morning, I’ve decided that—for the first time on this trip—I won’t set an alarm. Recharging a bit, since in two days I have another 6 AM plan.

Till tomorrow,
— M