You can't sell Hanoi in a book.

Being in Hanoi is an assault on the senses. At once there is noise: revving motors, punctuated by impatient horns. A heavy humidity carries the smell of beef vermicelli to my hostel window, and leaves behind a whiff of Vietnamese mint. Visually, it's just colour and powerlines. I think I'm hallucinating.

I fell down the stairs of the hostel because they were wet. I'd seen the women silently mopping the floors and had stupidly assumed the threat of litigation would keep me safe. So, silly I did feel, as I rhythmically slid down the stairs on my arse to arrive, dumbly, in front of a full-length mirror. The women gasped with concern, and then relief, as I peeled myself off the landing. My thoughts ran the full gamut of relevant emotions; hot flashes of shock, embarrassment, pain, and finally, resignation.

In Hanoi, it is you who falls down the stairs, and it is you who gets yourself hit by a moped.