Scent-Impressions

First Days in Vietnam

~boats in Hoi Anh~

I arrived on Friday morning, after nearly twenty-four hours of travel from Helsinki, and stepped straight into a world of brightness and scent. From the first moment—my feet soaking in warm water infused with lime and lemongrass—I’ve been struck by the sheer freshness of everything here: the herbs, the sea, the markets, the light.

My first meal was breakfast: a steaming bowl of beef noodle soup brightened with fresh lime, and a dark, fragrant Vietnamese coffee softened with condensed milk. After sleeping off the jet lag, I headed into the old town for the final day of Tết. Longboats glided up the river, lanterns flickered to life at dusk, and the city felt like it was breathing in celebration.

crispy saffron pancakes, lanterns in old town Hoi Anh, bamboo walkway, fresh fruit with yoghurt, banh mi served in brown paper bag, ginger tea with dried fruit (fruit tbd)

Lunch and dinner that day were revelations—fresh rolls of basil, mint, cilantro, shrimp, and sweet-sour dipping sauce; later, a sizzling saffron pancake folded around crab and shrimp, wrapped by hand in rice paper and herbs. Every bite caught me off guard in the best possible way.

left to right: fresh shrimp rools, view from my room, coconut coffee

Yesterday I traveled to Huế to visit our teacher’s root temple—a story for another post. On the food front, my driver introduced me to a local specialty: a rich beef noodle soup with meatballs, pork, crab, herbs, and the constant ritual of squeezing more lime into the bowl and tossing the rinds into the bucket under the table. A plate of long, skinny fried dough sticks appeared for dessert.

And here in Hội An, so famously known for its bánh mì, I tasted a vegan version this morning—served on a delicate, lightly toasted baguette. A perfect reminder of how colonial histories and local ingenuity shape the most everyday foods.

left to right: Bún Bò Huế Sen and restaurant where we ate, Lunar New Year's Lanterns, breakfast with fresh mango, rice paper in water container

What strikes me is how ordinary descriptions don’t do these dishes justice. I hear the ingredients, nod politely, and then take a bite—and am stunned. That may be how I continue to travel here: led not by logic, but by wonder.

In between meals, I’ve been decompressing with long walks along the rice paddies near where I’m staying. The calm of the water, the deep green of the fields—it’s a serenity I didn’t know I needed. This afternoon I braved the bicycle for the first time, and tomorrow morning I’ll ride to the open-air market before trying cao lầu, a local noodle dish darkened with ash from an island plant, and perhaps white rose dumplings, a Vietnamese-Chinese specialty of pork, shrimp, and mushrooms.

A cooking class two doors down is also calling to me.

After the long, cold winter in Finland, stepping into sundresses and sandals feels like a small rebirth. And still—I miss the life I’ve begun weaving in Helsinki: my colleagues, my classmates, the slow rhythm of sauna and study.

It’s humbling, too, to rely so heavily on Google Translate. The tonal beauty of Vietnamese reminds me of Navajo—its nasal quality familiar—but the subtleties here are intricate, musical, and far beyond the three-tone world of Diné bizaad. I find myself imitating the Translate voice as a kind of linguistic play, and maybe, a first step toward belonging.

For now, I’m letting the journey lead. More to come as the days (and the songs!) unfold.

Boats on Lunar New Year along the river in Hội An

#VietnamJourney #EthnographicNotes #HoiAnFoodways #MindfulTravel #SongwritingFieldnotes #VietnameseCuisine #Tết #CreativeEthnography #SensingTheWorld