The Jeep pulled up with a low, familiar rumble – a weathered beast of a machine that felt both rugged and oddly charming. Sliding into the seat, I was met with cracked leather and the smell of old petrol. Within minutes, we were weaving through the streets of Hanoi, the wind tugging at my shirt as scooters zipped past in every direction.

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We left the polished façades behind and dove straight into the city’s living heart. Narrow alleyways opened into bustling markets, children darted between bikes, and shopkeepers called out with effortless rhythm. The chaos had a strange harmony to it – a rhythm only the locals seem to know.

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Our guide spoke over the hum of the engine, pointing out tiny tea shops tucked beneath balconies and the remains of old French villas now half-swallowed by greenery. The Jeep jostled us gently as we crossed the worn bones of Long Bien Bridge, the rusted steel glowing in the sunlight.

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We paused near West Lake, where the city suddenly softened. The water was still, reflecting the sky and the tree-lined roads that wrapped around it. It was hard to believe we were still in Hanoi. Then came Train Street – a flash of tracks, coffee cups, and a wall of sound as a train surged past, so close you could feel it in your chest.

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Lunch was a humble affair – no white tablecloths, just proper Vietnamese food done right. Chargrilled pork, noodles, fresh herbs. No fuss. Just flavour.

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After the final sip of egg coffee – creamy, sweet, surprisingly strong – we climbed back into the Jeep. The streets seemed a little less foreign now. As we made our way back, I felt like I’d seen something few travellers do – not just the Hanoi in guidebooks, but the Hanoi that lives between the cracks.

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We were dropped at our hotel just as the light was beginning to shift. My shirt was dusty, my hair windswept, and my head full of stories. And that’s exactly how it should be.