The bell tower of Saint Joseph's cathedral had just struck six. An unearthly hour for a dreamer like me. Long worn out dusty curtains hid a tiny door to the still sleeping world. From a creaky window of a hostel as' kitchy' as comfortable, I could see the tanned clouds whispering a graceful good morning, even if I didn't know if it would have been a pleasant one, despite I was hoping so. A mix of anxiety and adrenaline kept me awake distracting me from the fatigue. The annoying ticking of a rusty pendulum clock continued to break the silence of that morning that had just begun. The dew was still on the leaves, the sun was shy and let itself be intimidated by that thin fog that often envelops even my soul, as a sort of protection so as not to allow those emotions that sometimes it’s better to stuck inside, so as to inevitably let the fear of sharing them consume you. I was in a hurry even though I had nothing to do. Maybe because it was my first day in Hanoi, even if it felt like I had already been to that place with my mind many times when I was in my hometown, in Italy, dreaming of walking through the rice fields and eating some freshly cooked Pho at the market in an anonymous street of Ninh Bihn village. I came out of the shell of my hostel which had welcomed my tired legs in the night and immediately felt that electrifying energy that runs through the skin from the veins, giving you the perception of a cold that is not really there. Have you ever felt that way?. It was only the end of an intriguing and irritating wait for a much desired flight, not a tourist trip, but that of a nomadic, a gypsy, a soul like mine, perhaps in pain, but certainly thirsty for knowledge and never satisfied. As soon as I crossed the corner of a narrow street like a mountain river, I knew exactly where I was. After having left Taiwan, I saw 'my Asia' again. I recognized the spicy and tangy smell of ginger, cumin and lime and I immediately felt at home , it was reassuring. I did not feel alone, everyone's eyes were focused on this foreigner, a not-anymore-young girl with a head of hair as thick as an oak tree and black as coal. It looked like Esmeralda, ìLa bohemienne de Notre Dame de Parisì, but in reality it was just me, Esmeralda, a girl with an old soul raised by her grandmother in a village lost in the hills of Sicily. Oh Lord, how I miss my grandmother! The sun was already high as hoist sails on a windy day. I crossed all the way to the center of the city, curiously admiring every detail of the surrounding environment, catching memories with my bloodshot eyes still affected by the jetleg, the sworn enemy of every traveller. I met many eyes on my path, some perplexed some others friendlier. I didn’t draw up a roadmap for that day, I just wanted to walk by the colossal redwood trees and admire their majesty. Trees tells stories, they are silent and resilient creatures which might be damaged by a storm but hardly to be demolished. I was so excited to notice how my ‘two homes’, Sicily and Vietnam, were so similar. Same old houses whose walls tell stories of a succession of generations, churches and monuments that glorified the ancestors, people engaged in the same daily chores. I spotted an art gallery and I decided to stop by. I stayed outside to look at the paitings depicting the peculiarities of that ancient culture where tradition and modernity seemed to coexist in harmony. Suddenly, I heard a trembling and sweet voice, repeating something that sounded incomprehensible to me, it was vietnamese. The voice was calling, Bạn có muốn rau mùi? (Do you want some coriander?). Where did it come from? I wondered. I was immediately filled with thrills and chills, spreading all over my body like wildlife. I saw an elderly woman with hair as white as the snow that hardly ever falls in Vietnam. The rough and wrinkled skin like a page of an old book that you no longer read but do not want to throw away because it is precious. I saw the face of my grandmother who passed away 5 years earlier. We exchanged smiles as in an emotional dialogue, since we would never understand each other by talking. Languages have barriers, emotions haven’t. I was tired and I pointed to her chair as if to ask her to want to rest and she nodded. As the locals followed one another to buy bunches of coriander for a few dollars, I stood there watching the wrinkles on his face, recalling the face of my beloved grandmother, each of them telling a story , a suffering engraved in both body and soul. My mind was crowded with memories, I miss her more than ever. I felt her hand caressing mine. I remembered her hands were always cold, but her heart was welcoming and warm. After a while I got up and the lady with a soft but tired voice turned around as if she wanted to ask me ‘young lady, why are you going away?’ Like my grandmother did every time after Sunday lunch. I gestured to her that I wanted to eat. She smiled, touched my hands, opened them gently and placed a bunch of fresh coriander in them. I felt the leaves rubbing my skin, it was a good feeling. I took some change, but she refused it. I thanked her with a bow, she responded by raising her pointed hat and waved. I simply said in italian ‘Ciao, nonna’, which means ‘Goodbye, granny'. It was a cold day in Hanoi, the weather was cloudy, I kept quiet all day long, my soul was resting.