Chapter 6 Rose Island (6)

3. 21 degrees north of the equator There is no spring in Hanoi.Even in March.In the late night air there was still the scorching heat left by the scorching sun.The lights of the bustling restaurants flickered.Large patches of green trees cast dappled shadows under the pavement.When the motorcycle surged past, the ear-piercing whistling shattered and scattered the reflection of the entire city. The Brit from Liverpool in the next room said it was a Crazy City.The hustle and bustle of the city that cannot stop the noise.Surrounding the boiling scene of the city is a tide-like sound.English pronunciation by people of various nationalities, British, French, Japanese, Spanish, American, Swedish.The roar of motorcycles all day and all night.The slow and eloquent Vietnamese words are intertwined like a breeze blowing through the woods. The CD shop's shoddy speakers take turns blasting plaintive Vietnamese love songs.The driver wearing a bamboo hat slowly stepped on the tall tricycle, ringing Ding Dong Ding Dong's bell at the corner...

In the end, you will have an illusion that this sound is a memory of a previous life stored in your cerebral cortex. But you like it so much. Its voice will never stop.like the sea. You remember the first day you arrived.Daba will park you near Hoan Kiem Lake.The silent Japanese child, the Nordic girl with skin like white linen, the American man wearing orange-red cotton socks...all of them carried their huge backpacks and disappeared on the street in the sun like dew all at once. .Standing at the intersection of the Old Quarter, you can see the alleys in all directions unfolding in front of you like a maze: small colorful and confusing shops are closely packed together, the tall and narrow small buildings of the family hotel are like building blocks, dirty and old Large clusters of bright red flowers blooming on the terrace, English-language advertisements for Internet cafes, pharmacies and bars...

so many people.The tide-like crowd rushed over faces of different skin and hair colors.Here, you no longer carry your own history and past with you.You can start over.So, we become addicted to traveling. You will use your whole life to remember this former city. time in Hanoi.Over time.Delayed to a lifetime so long and melancholy. Live in a small hotel along the street.You have never slept so soundly in a foreign city.When I opened my eyes, through the French wooden lattice window, I saw that the sky was pale.A bright, dry rose-purple in the tropical morning sky.People appeared early on the street, sweeping garbage, selling flowers and vegetables, motorbikes speeding, children running wildly with bare feet, dogs barking...the air smelled of cool leaves and jasmine.Such a morning is not in my hometown, not in Shanghai, and not in Beijing.It belongs to the previous life.Wash your hair in the tiny bathroom of your room.He splashed cold water on his face with the palm of his hand.Then, wearing an old cotton shirt and a pair of flip-flops on bare feet, I walked slowly down the narrow corridor of the Vietnamese family hotel and came to the courtyard.The garden is full of tropical flowers and trees.They have big, short-haired dogs.A gentle and beautiful dog.Ask for a breakfast.Fresh lemon juice and French bread.smokes.Read pirated copies of English novels peddled throughout Hanoi.Watching the gradually warming noon sun, little by little, transfer from the gap in the shade to the back of the hand.Thick sweat oozes from the skin.

A Vietnamese girl with a shy smile and bright eyes approached.The jasmine flowers just picked in the morning are sold under the vine blue.There are dewdrops on the fragrant and white petals.He didn't speak, just looked at you with a smile.her smile.I don't know what kind of life can be called drunkenness. Do nothing every day. Hang around in the alleys of the block every day. Check out their store.The material color and breath are flooding from street to street.Shoes, powdered milk, clothes, CDs, handicrafts, leather, musical instruments, funeral supplies, wedding dresses, temples, bars, food stalls for beef and rice noodles...Travelers and local vendors walk through it.A strong and slender Vietnamese woman, wearing a coconut shell hat, carrying a pole, and a basket filled with dark purple overripe mulberries.Selling cigarettes and lighters.There are also piles of pirated English books piled up on his chest, most of which are LP travel books and novels about the Vietnam War.Their smiles are always as quiet as water.

At night, there are small wooden carts full of dried squid walking back and forth.Grilled over charcoal fire, pressed into thin slices and eaten wrapped in tomato salsa.Those who sell fruit, peel and wash them in advance, and pile them in glass cabinets.Pineapple, milk fruit, guava, dragon fruit, mango... According to the customer's preference, put them in plastic bags, add ice cubes, and a small box of sweet and sour and slightly spicy seasoning. Tired from walking, pick a small restaurant to sit down.There are sandwiches and pasta.Someone was drinking frozen Coke at the table while reading a travel book, choosing a route to continue walking in the afternoon.The big tree facing the street is old and verdant, and its thick branches and leaves cover the balcony opposite.The Egyptian blue shutters were open, with birdcages hanging, and the burning incense and white smoke rising.

At dusk, I saw St Joseph Cathedral. Twilight shrouded this old building at the intersection.Behind the black carved iron railings, several children are playing in the cool open space.They are barefoot, kicking shuttlecock, running and screaming freely.A beautiful little girl with black hair and shawl jumped up and down like a presumptuous little fish.gaze at her.Gazing at the heaven of childhood. Leaving the church, I randomly picked a road that is illuminated by the setting sun.There are tall green trees along the street, and the fine leaves are falling like rain in the wind.Smelling the strong aroma of coffee, I passed by Moca Cafe. This is a good coffee shop recommended by LP.Such a thriving coffee shop.The waiters are all young and polite boys.The proprietress is sitting at the cash register, a woman in a black Vietnamese silk dress, silver earrings, and a bun, with a strong expression.

The floor-to-ceiling windows facing the street have no glass, and the wooden windows have been pushed open.There are classical ceilings with patterns, crystal chandeliers, simple wooden tables and heavy wooden chairs.Travelers settle down inside, read newspapers and chat.There is an old European man reading a thick novel.I ordered Vietnamese coffee.The hot coffee that came was strong and bitter. You are hungry again at night.Walk in the alleys and look for stalls that eat beef rice noodles.Glutinous rice noodles, crispy thin beef slices, a plate of green wild vegetable leaves, and a pile of lemon juice.The stall owners are two Vietnamese women with a big brown dog with them.Sit on a small stool and eat around a low wooden table.Light a candle.Touch the dog's neck with your hand.They are always so docile.Internet cafes filled with strangers writing e-mails.They play music.Passing the corner of the street, a group of European men in shorts sat on a small bench drinking Vietnamese tea.Tea stalls are lit with brocade lanterns.Pink and purple, crimson lanterns.Flickering dimly in the night.

Such an early morning.two o'clock.You hear the clatter of wooden slippers on the flagstones.The sky is full of stars. You have to remember it this way.Hold your breath, close your eyes, and listen. Hanoi you have to remember.That's it.