Perhaps only long-time residents of Hanoi truly grasp the distinct atmosphere of the 29th day of Tet. As the old year draws to a close, the city's rhythm slows. Roads, usually packed with vehicles, become surprisingly open. I drove through familiar streets without the constant worry of honking horns behind me or inching forward through crowds. Only a few vendors hurried home after the year's final market.

On the morning of Tet's 29th day, stopping at a normally congested intersection, I momentarily felt lost. There were no more growling engines, no lingering dust, and no exasperated headshakes over red-light runners, sidewalk drivers, or reckless lane-changers. Instead, the air was clearer, and quiet moments allowed sunlight to stream through the trees.

Hanoi on these year-end days is remarkably gentle. Streets around the lake and central routes, typically traffic hotspots, now appear wider. People drive slower, yielding more readily. It feels as if the year-long hustle and bustle are temporarily set aside behind each family's door, making way for reunion and anticipation.

Just days prior, a journey of a few kilometers would take me an hour to navigate. Vehicle exhaust, dust, and accumulated frustration left everyone weary. Stopping mid-road, carrying bulky goods, cutting in, and even arguments—all contributed to a chaotic, suffocating scene.

These days thus feel like a rare privilege the city grants itself. As people depart and life temporarily quiets, Hanoi reveals its inherent tranquility. I realized this city is most beautiful not when it's brightly lit or bustling, but when it can breathe, when it is quiet.

If only this peace were not confined to just a few year-end days. If only traffic awareness could improve so that roads were no longer battlegrounds for every small space. Then, every day, even beyond Tet's 29th, Hanoi could retain some of the gentleness and civility I came to appreciate in that rare, quiet moment.

Reader Vu Vu