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The heat. The haze. The jetlag. The existential trilogy. I wilt into a taxi outside the airport. As I’m driven by the acres of rolling paddy fields, I catch vague glimpses of conical hats peering out over a sea of luscious green. Just as I begin to muse that Vietnam is precisely how I pictured it, the serene pastoral landscape peels back, revealing an urban jungle in its most literal sense. I have arrived in Hanoi. Banyan trees grow beside, against and between the iconic ‘tube houses’. These vividly painted narrow edifices are ramshackle structures, standing between three and six stories tall, but barely five feet wide. Home feels incredibly far in so many aspects. I’m almost 6000 miles away and I left almost forty hours ago, but the overwhelming sense of distance is in the atmosphere. The essence of this place is fundamentally and palpably… different. This is a feeling I have never experienced before, and it’s disorientating and thrilling in equal measure. It’s 6am. I drop my bag at the hotel but can’t check in until 10. I let the icy breeze of the foyer’s air conditioning glide over my clammy skin for a few more blissful seconds before I step back out into the oppressive humidity of the Hanoi dawn. The city is starting to rouse and all I want to do is sleep. Dogs lounge calmly in the roads, indifferent to the mopeds and rickshaws hurtling by, missing them by a hairsbreadth. If the dogs don’t care about the traffic, then why have I been standing on the kerb too afraid to cross for almost five minutes? Remember what the guide book said. Just go. Maintain a steady pace. They will drive around you. I practically shut my eyes as I march toward the other side, screaming internally. When I dare to look around, an elderly Vietnamese lady has overtaken me, nonchalantly weaving her way through the traffic. I make a mental note to always cross with a local in future. After a baffling interaction in a café where I (attempt to) order a white coffee, but am instead ushered to the bathroom, I’m reminded that humour is a universal language and the waitress and I share a laugh. She then serves me the most delicious iced coffee I’ve ever had. Coffee seemingly only comes iced here, and I’m fully on board with this, as the temperature tips over the 30 degrees mark. It’s not even 8am yet. Now reasonably caffeinated, I walk vaguely in the direction of Hoan Kiem Lake, passing through the bustling slender streets, the pavements overtaken by stalls, traders setting up for the day’s business. I walk in the gutter, meandering around live chickens, barely-live fish and more apathetic dogs. It’s both calmly chaotic and thoroughly exhilarating. The roads widen as I approach the lake and it’s a relief to see such an expanse of open space. The feeling I had when I drove through the paddy fields returns to me – this is exactly how I imagined it to be. Den Ngoc Son (Temple of the Jade Mountain) ostensibly floats on the algae-green water. Beautifully enchanting string music tinkles in the still buy close air as a huge group gathers to perform tai chi. Mesmerised, I sit on a bench to watch, absorbing the calm, relaxed vibes. Remembering that my newfound relaxation is actually profound exhaustion, I hit a further two cafes on the slow walk back to the hotel. I have an extensive itinerary to look forward to, but for now, a cold shower consumes my thoughts. As I finally sink into the crisp, cool freshness of a hotel bed, I think about how Vietnam is simultaneously just what I thought it would be, and yet perpetually surprising.