Rice Fields, Phở Aromas, Traffic, and Temples: A Cycling Journey Through Vietnam
People travel for many reasons. Some seek adventure, others an escape. Some are chasing something, while others are leaving something behind. But the real reason—the one that stays with you—often reveals itself only at the journey’s end. When I set off from Saigon on my bicycle, I thought I was simply crossing Vietnam from south to north. It was only later that I understood what I had truly been searching for.
In the south, the heat wrapped around me like a heavy blanket. The air shimmered over the asphalt as I cycled past endless rice paddies, where farmers waded through the flooded fields, their conical hats bobbing in the distance. Every so often, a breeze carried the scent of sizzling street food—grilled pork, fresh herbs, and the unmistakable warmth of bánh mì pulled straight from a cart. Vietnam’s flavors weren’t just fuel; they were a window into its soul.
The road was long, sometimes lonely, but never empty. A young man on a motorbike sped past me, giving a quick nod before disappearing ahead. Three kilometers later, I found him waiting by the roadside, a cold bottle of water in his hand. He smiled and handed it to me without a word. A simple act, but one that spoke volumes.
Further north, the heat gave way to gusting winds. In the central highlands, the air was thick with the scent of salt and fish sauce as I traced the coastline. The wind fought me at every turn, but the rewards were plenty—hidden fishing villages, beaches where I rested my tired legs, and bowls of steaming phở that restored my strength. In the town of Ninh Bình, the ancient temples stood in silence, their stone corridors whispering of a past that felt just within reach.
Then came the cold. As I pushed into the northern mountains, the drizzle turned to steady rain, soaking through my clothes. The mist curled around the peaks, shrouding the world in quiet solitude. One evening, I stumbled upon an elderly woman making rice noodles in a dimly lit shop. Her hands moved with practiced ease, pressing and cutting the dough, while a kettle of water boiled over a wood fire. She handed me a bowl, and in that moment, the warmth of the broth melted away the cold.
At night, I wandered through tiny villages, letting the scent of grilled meat and fish sauce guide me. I tried dishes I couldn’t name, learned to appreciate the crunch of fried shallots, the tang of pickled vegetables, the slow burn of chili. Each meal, each encounter, was a lesson in connection.
By the time I rolled into Hanoi, the city erupted around me in a chaotic ballet of motorbikes, street vendors, and honking horns. I weaved through the maze of the Old Quarter, dodging carts loaded with fruit, the air thick with the scent of coffee and caramelized sugar. It was overwhelming, exhilarating, and yet—somehow—it felt like home.
At the end of each day, exhausted from the heat and the endless pedaling, my mind drifted to a place thousands of kilometers away. In those final kilometers before stopping for the night, I would close my eyes for a second and imagine I was back in Italy, pushing through the last stretch of road toward home. I pictured the Dolomites rising to my left, the vast fields of corn swaying to my right. It was a small trick, a fleeting illusion, but it carried me forward—one pedal stroke at a time.
Vietnam had been more than a route on a map. It had been a collision of sensations—heat and cold, solitude and connection, exhaustion and exhilaration. And just like a good meal, a journey is something to be savored—one mile, one bite, one experience at a time.
