About Leo

Look, I’ll keep this short — then I’ll tell you a story that isn’t short at all.

My name’s Leo Tran. I’m a Vietnamese-Australian guy in his late 20s. I grew up in Melbourne, worked as a barista for way too long, and then did something that confused everyone around me — I moved back to Hanoi.

But here’s the thing most people don’t know: Hanoi isn’t a place I “discovered.” It’s a place I came home to.

My Grandfather’s Hanoi

My grandfather — Ong Noi — was a native Hanoian. Not someone who moved there. He was born into the narrow alleys of the Old Quarter, back when the French had just laid down their wide boulevards and yellow-walled villas over the bones of an ancient city.

He started as a laborer. A young Vietnamese man carrying crates and sweeping floors for French officers stationed near the citadel. He learned French — not from a school, but from listening. From the barracks, the markets, the conversations he wasn’t supposed to understand. He picked it up word by word, and soon he was selling goods to French soldiers: soap, tobacco, fabric. Small things. But it was how he fed a family and kept his dignity in a city that wasn’t entirely his own anymore.

He watched Hanoi change. Decade after decade. He saw the French leave. He saw the city rebuild. He saw the Old Quarter survive wars and floods and governments and still somehow remain — stubborn, beautiful, impossible to erase.

And he told stories. God, did he tell stories.

Five Gates and a Thousand Years

When I was a kid, my grandfather would walk me through Hanoi’s history like it was a map of his own life.

The five Cua O — the ancient gates of the city — were his landmarks. Not just geography. Memory.

O Quan Chuong, the only gate still standing on Hang Chieu Street, where soldiers once fought the French in 1873. He’d stand there and say: “This gate is older than your country, con.”
O Cau Den, where Pho Hue meets Bach Mai — the eastern gate, where farmers once brought vegetables into the city at dawn. He remembered the smell of morning glories and wet earth.
O Dong Mac, near Lo Duc, the waterway gate where boats carried goods along the river. He’d describe the sound of oars hitting water at 4 AM.
O Cho Dua, the coconut market gate — named for the palm trees that once shaded a busy crossroads. Now it’s a traffic circle. But he remembered the shade.
O Cau Giay, the paper bridge gate, where villagers from Yen Hoa once made paper by hand along the To Lich River. He said the water used to be clear.

Every alley had a name. Every name had a trade. Hang Bac for silver. Hang Gai for silk. Hang Ma for paper offerings. This wasn’t a tourist map — it was a living, breathing economy that survived a thousand years.

My grandfather taught me that Hanoi isn’t just a city. It’s a civilization. A thousand years of it.

The Alleys I Grew Up In

Every summer, my parents would send me back to Hanoi. Two months with Ong Noi in the Old Quarter. Two months of sleeping on a bamboo mat, eating xoi from the woman on the corner at 6 AM, listening to the street vendors calling out their wares at night — that half-sung, half-shouted melody that echoes off the tube houses and stays in your head for years.

I know which alley has the best bun cha because I ate there when I was nine. I know which tree on Hang Ma Street drops its leaves in November because I used to kick them into piles. I know the exact spot by Hoan Kiem Lake where my grandfather would sit every morning, drinking tra da from a plastic cup, watching the tai chi groups move in slow motion while the city woke up around them.

Those alleys raised me. Not Melbourne. Not any barista job. Hanoi.

Coming Home — and What Changed

When I came back five years ago, it was supposed to be a visit. Two weeks. Eat some pho. See the family.

I landed at Noi Bai. Took a taxi through the new highway — wider, faster, lined with apartment towers I didn’t recognize. And then the car turned into the Old Quarter, and the streets got narrow again, and the motorbikes closed in, and a woman on the sidewalk was grilling bun cha over charcoal in an alley so tight two people couldn’t pass each other.

The smell hit me before I even opened the door. Charcoal. Fish sauce. Caramelized pork. And suddenly I was nine years old again, sitting on a plastic stool with my grandfather, watching the smoke curl up between the rooftops.

I cancelled my return flight.

But here’s what nobody tells you about coming home: the city remembers you, but it’s also moved on without you. The tree on Hang Ma? Cut down for road widening. The xoi vendor? Her daughter runs the stall now. The cafe where Ong Noi drank his tra da? It’s a bubble tea shop.

Some of it breaks your heart. Some of it makes you proud. Hanoi is still Hanoi — still loud, still chaotic, still beautiful — but it’s also building upward and outward at a speed that would have made my grandfather dizzy.

That’s why I started this site.

Why I Write

I Love Hanoi exists because this city deserves better than “Top 10 Things To Do” listicles written by someone who was here for three days.

Hanoi is a thousand-year-old civilization. It survived Chinese dynasties, French colonialism, American bombs, and a complete economic reinvention. The Old Quarter’s 36 streets weren’t named randomly — each one was a guild, a trade, a community. Hang Bac Street had silversmiths before Europe had banks.

I want to share that Hanoi. Not just the pho and the Instagram spots — but the stories underneath. The grandfather in the alley who remembers when there were five gates. The woman who’s been making banh cuon at the same address for forty years. The sound of the night vendor’s call echoing through the tube houses at 11 PM.

I’m not a tour guide with a megaphone and a numbered flag. I’m the friend who grew up here, left, came back, and wants to show you why this city grabbed him and wouldn’t let go.

What You’ll Find Here

Street food guides — I’ve eaten pho at 200+ places in this city. I’ll tell you which ones are worth your time and which ones are tourist traps charging triple.
Neighborhood deep dives — The Old Quarter gets all the love, but Tay Ho, Ba Dinh, and Dong Da have stories too. I’ll walk you through them.
Day trips from Hanoi — Ninh Binh, Sapa, Ha Long Bay — all the spots worth a bus ride.
Honest tour and hotel picks — Places I’d actually recommend to a friend. Not the ones paying the most commission.
History you can walk through — The temples, the gates, the alleys where a thousand years of civilization is still alive if you know where to look.
Cafe guides — Former barista, remember? Egg coffee, coconut coffee, ca phe sua da — I’ve tried them all.

My Promise

Every recommendation on this site is something I’ve personally tried, eaten, stayed at, or done. If something contains affiliate links, I’ll always tell you — check our Affiliate Disclosure for the full details. Your trust matters more than a commission.

I write like I’m texting a friend who just landed at Noi Bai and needs to know where to eat, what to skip, and how to cross the street without having a panic attack.

But sometimes — when the subject deserves it — I’ll slow down and tell you a story. Because some corners of this city can’t be captured in bullet points. They need to be felt.

Get in Touch

Got a question about Hanoi? Found a food spot I need to try? Want to tell me my pho ranking is wrong? (It’s not, but I respect the passion.)

Drop me a line: [email protected]

Or find me on Instagram (@leo.hanoi) — that’s where I post the food photos that make people hungry at 2 AM.

Welcome to Hanoi. A thousand years of civilization, served on a plastic stool.

— Leo