Skip to main content

About

About This Blog — and the Person Behind It

I am Bi. I grew up in Hanoi, and I have lived here long enough to stop seeing it as a place and start reading it as a text.

This blog exists because of a specific frustration: most writing about Vietnam moves too fast. It names things without feeling them. It photographs what is visible and ignores what is structural. It arrives, takes notes, and leaves — carrying impressions instead of understanding.

Bi's Scope moves differently.

What I Do — and How

I write about Vietnamese culture, urban life, food, traditional craft, and the slow logic of how people live inside the spaces they inherit.

My method is sensory first, analytical second. I notice what arrives before I understand why — the way a sound contracts a street, the way a fermented smell announces a dish before it is tasted, the way a pumpkin hanging from a bamboo pole on a Mekong river is actually a complete sentence in a visual language most people never learn to read.

I have been doing this for years — not as a journalist with credentials, but as a Hanoi-born freelancer who travels slowly, stays long enough to be bored, and writes only after the obvious observation has stopped feeling obvious. I documented Hanoi's railway-side communities during the 2014 Canon Photomarathon. I watched the Phùng Hưng train alley transform from survival space into tourist spectacle and wrote about what was gained and what quietly receded. I stood in a Hmong market in Mèo Vạc in 2018 and held a skirt made of lanh hemp — rough as bark, priced above two million đồng — and did not understand it until later. I have taken the slow road through Huế's markets, Cần Thơ's river trade, Đắk Lắk's drying yards, Chợ Lớn's medicinal corridors, and my cousin's patient invitation to finally understand the Mekong Delta.

These are not trips. They are encounters that took time to become sentences.

The Lens I Use

I am not neutral, and I do not pretend to be.

I write from a Vietnamese perspective — which means I sometimes see things that foreign observers miss, and I sometimes see things that local familiarity has made invisible to other Vietnamese. The scope is deliberately bifocal: close enough to feel, far enough to think.

I also write in English by choice — not to distance myself from the subject, but to offer it to a wider conversation. Vietnam's cultural depth is consistently underrepresented in English-language writing. Most of what exists is either too touristic or too academic. There is very little in between: rigorous but accessible, personal but not self-indulgent, particular but not provincial.

That gap is where this blog lives.

What You Will Find Here

The writing on this blog falls into two modes, and I do not apologize for either.

The first mode is literary ethnography: long, sensory essays that read more like field studies than travel posts. These pieces do not move quickly. They earn their observations. If you read one and feel that you have been somewhere — felt something shift in your understanding of how Vietnamese people use space, time, food, or material — then the writing has done what it was meant to do.

The second mode is practical depth: guides and field notes for people who are actually going somewhere in Vietnam. I write these differently — with more structure, more direct information — but with the same refusal to be shallow. A guide to Hanoi street food on this blog will not tell you to "just point at what looks good." It will tell you why that strategy sometimes works and sometimes produces a very confused old woman who genuinely cannot understand you.

Both modes share one commitment: I only write about things I have experienced myself, and I write about them after I have thought about them long enough to have something to say beyond the surface.

Why Words, and Not Images

This blog does not rely on photography or video. That is not a limitation I am hiding — it is a condition that shaped how I write.

If there are no images to carry the weight, the words must. So they do. Every essay on this blog is built to make you see without seeing — to reconstruct a smell, a texture, a spatial logic, a human gesture — through language alone. I think of it as an older discipline: the kind of writing that existed before cameras, when the only way to bring a place to a reader was to render it precisely enough that the reader's own imagination would finish the work.

You are not missing anything by the absence of photographs. You are being asked to read more carefully. That is a different kind of travel.

A Note on Accuracy

Everything I describe is based on direct experience. Where I recount something I did not witness personally — such as the account of coffee drying yards in Đắk Lắk, told to me by someone who stood there — I say so explicitly. I do not invent atmosphere to fill gaps. I do not merge multiple visits into a single false memory for narrative convenience.

When I am uncertain, I write around the uncertainty rather than through it. I would rather be honest about the limits of what I know than offer a confident impression of something I only partially understood.

Contact

If you are a researcher, journalist, editor, or traveler who wants to ask something, discuss a piece, or propose a collaboration — you can reach me at "biennguyenhuu90@gmail.com".

I read everything. I reply slowly, because I write slowly, and the same principle applies to both.

Bi — Hanoi, 2026

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Fermented Vietnam — The Geography of Controlled Surrender

Anthony Bourdain once described “Bún Bò Huế” (spicy beef noodle soup from Huế) as one of the greatest soups in the world. Most foreign viewers watching him lean over that steaming bowl focused on the lemongrass, the beef shank, the curls of chili oil floating on top like molten lacquer. They assumed the seduction came from heat and spice. But the real engine sat lower in the broth, nearly invisible. A spoonful of “mắm ruốc” (fermented tiny shrimp paste) dissolved into the stock long before the bowl reached the table. Without it, the soup becomes merely aromatic. With it, the broth acquires depth: a strange gravitational pull that makes the tongue keep searching for another sip even after logic says stop. The smell arrives first as resistance. Then comes sweetness. Then something almost metallic, almost tidal. That is the secret foreigners often mistake for “complexity.” Vietnamese cuisine does not fear bacteria. It domesticates them. The sharp “póc” sound of lifting the lid from a su...
Post a Comment
Read more

Decoding Hủ Tiếu: The Elastic Memory of a Migrant Noodle

The First Refusal Is Not About Taste, But Identity I remember the moment clearly: the air in Sài Gòn was thick with exhaust and late-afternoon humidity, the kind that clings to your shirt like a second skin. My uncle insisted on taking me to a “proper” Phở place—“the most Hà Nội one in the city,” he said, with a quiet pride. But I didn’t travel south to eat a memory from the north. I wanted friction, not familiarity. I wanted something that belonged to this city’s restless bloodstream. He paused for a second, then smiled—a knowing, almost conspiratorial smile—and turned his motorbike toward a dimly lit sidewalk. Minutes later, I found myself sitting on a low plastic stool, staring into a bowl of Hủ tiếu that seemed, at first glance, too ordinary to carry the weight of three centuries. I was wrong. A Cart, A City, A Portable Civilization The cart stood there like a self-contained universe. Its glass panels were painted with faded Chinese opera scenes—warriors frozen mid-battle, their co...
Post a Comment
Read more

Hanoi Old Quarter — A Living Factory of Memory

The rain arrives sideways in “Hàng Lược” , not as weather but as atmosphere. It clings to the plastic tarps, gathers in the folds of peach blossom petals, then slides down onto crates of kumquats stacked beside rusting motorbikes. Somewhere behind the fogged glass of an old tube house, incense burns too heavily. The air smells of wet bark, ash, and the metallic scent of electrical wires heating under too many adapters. A Western tourist pauses under a striped awning, lifting a Leica toward an old woman wrapped in dark velvet. She studies a peach branch with the concentration of someone inspecting family history rather than flowers. Right beside her, a delivery rider squeezes through the crowd, phone vibrating against the fuel tank, carrying bubble tea toward a newer Hanoi that eats time faster than this street can produce it. This is the first misunderstanding outsiders make about the Hanoi Old Quarter: they think they are witnessing contradiction. In reality, they are witnessing conti...
Post a Comment
Read more