So This Is What 14 Degrees Looks Like
The very first thing I saw of Hanoi was not a building. Not a landmark. Not even a proper tree.
It was fog.
From the plane window, the land below looked like a watercolor painting someone had forgotten to finish. The trees were faint shapes, like shy ghosts standing politely in line. It was late January. The captain announced it was 14 degrees Celsius.
So this is what 14 degrees looks like, I thought. It looks like a country half-asleep under a gray blanket.
The Expectation That Quietly Packed Its Bags
Before arriving, I carried a small, unflattering assumption in my suitcase: that Vietnamese people might not be especially warm or smiley.
That assumption lasted about as long as the walk from immigration to baggage claim.
People were kind. Not loud. Not overly expressive. Just… kind. The kind of kindness that responds to how you show up. If you are friendly, they are friendly. If you are respectful, they soften. It felt less like customer service and more like mutual agreement: we will treat each other well.
It was a useful lesson. Sometimes the world mirrors your posture.
What Expectation Stayed Exactly the Same
Some things were exactly as I imagined.
Hanoi feels deeply Asian in a way that is confident and unapologetic. Even when buildings carry traces of European design—arched windows, old yellow facades—the soul of the place is unmistakably its own.
Flags are visible. Traditions are visible. Language dominates public space. There is very little that screams Western influence, even in global brands or café culture. The city feels patriotic without announcing it.
It stands firmly in its own story. And that, I quietly admired.
My Body Knew Before My Mind Did
The cold arrived first. It did not ask permission. My body felt it immediately. My fingers noticed. My ears noticed. My nose certainly noticed.
But my mind tried to argue. “It is just like Baguio,” it said.
It is not exactly like Baguio.
Baguio, no matter how urban it becomes, smells like pine trees. Even when traffic is heavy, there is still a whisper of forest. Hanoi’s winter fog smells different. It smells faintly of motor oil, of engines that never quite rest. The cold carries the scent of movement.
That was my second realization: climates may share a number on a thermometer, but they do not share a personality.
The Soundtrack of Day One
If I had to choose one sound to define my first full day, it would be this:
Motorcycles.
Not one or two. Not a distant hum. A steady, living current of revving engines flowing through the streets. It is less noise and more pulse. The city does not tick like a clock. It vibrates.
At first, it startled me. Then it fascinated me. Then it became background music.
By evening, the sound felt almost reassuring. Proof that the city was alive, industrious, awake.
A Quiet Realization
My first impressions of Hanoi were not dramatic. They were subtle. Fog. Cold air. Motor oil. Motorcycles. Small smiles.
It did not overwhelm me. It introduced itself slowly. And perhaps that is the right way for a city to greet a stranger. Not with fireworks, but with atmosphere. Fourteen degrees. Fog like watercolor. Engines in the distance.
Hanoi did not shout. It simply existed. And I arrived.
