Top Stories
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Thang Loi Hotel: The West Lake’s Last Galán
The Thang Loi Hotel is the Cuban diplomat who came to Hanoi and never caught the flight home. Bell-bottoms, shirt unbuttoned to the chest, insolent sideburns, a cigar planted like a flag. This guy isn’t here to please. He’s here to make an entrance. His Cuban heels click along the lakeshore. Not to run. No.…
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Phan Dinh Phung Avenue: A Haymaker in the Colonial Shop Window
Forget the spotless facades and the photos in front of bikes piled with flowers. Phan Dinh Phung isn’t interesting because it’s a pretty avenue or the perfect backdrop for influencers. It’s a real fairground haymaker, thrown square into the belly fat of colonial pride. It used to be Avenue Carnot, the backbone of French power…
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Park Hyatt Saigon: The Comforting Grammar of Luxury
Park Hyatt has rebuilt a kind of fantasy French colonial mansion: ivory façade, symmetry, oversized white louvered shutters, Indochine furniture, teak parquet, Oriental rugs, XXL crystal chandeliers, a monumental staircase, an antique glass ceiling. Heavy artillery for selling colonial chic. An overloaded contemporary reconstruction. A look that is barely twenty years old. Park Hyatt said…
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Sapa: The Adopted Son Who Went Off the Rails
Sapa is the kid adopted by the colonial bourgeoisie, raised in the cool air of French sanatoriums in the early twentieth century. At first, the boy had it all going for him. A hill station dreamed up as a chic refuge, lined with stone villas, a neo-Gothic church, and an alpine climate a world away…
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My Tho: the town tourists pass through without ever looking at it
My Tho is the girl from the sticks who went off to business school abroad. MBA in hand, multilingual, she came back with a killer business plan. Sharp little thing. She figured out that tourists are in a hurry, herd-minded, and obsessed with ticking boxes. So she smiles at everyone, hands out conical hats and…
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Hotel Continental: Saigon’s Eyes and Ears
The Continental Hotel Saigon has the hauteur of an old uncle. Slightly crooked. Eyebrows gone wild. Hair sprouting from his ears. Glasses held together on the bridge of his nose. He watches the street with the quiet certainty of a man who knows he’s still got it. Even if nobody asked. You Can’t Pull One…
The Travel Kitchen
My blog is a slow, soulful distillation of movement. Every place, every encounter, every detour is not an end in itself but an ingredient: raw, sometimes rugged, sometimes delicate, always chosen with intent.
I gather a fragment of history, peel back a culture, sear a few motorcycle escapes over high heat, and press landscapes until they yield every drop of their essence. Then, I let it all simmer in my own subjectivity. Writing doesn’t explain: it seasons, it binds, it reveals.
This is a table set far from the reach of tourist literature—a succession of dishes, scents, textures, and faces. Here, the “elsewhere” is savored slowly, without a manual, but with a sovereign freedom of tone.
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