Left along a street lined with sewing supply vendors, things are a bit more lively, but only a bit.
A patisserie decorated for Christmas.
A temple on the corner.
Bird market.
Past the coffin maker, and a funeral.
Further down the street, railroad tracks run right past houses. Around the corner and down the street a little further is another set of tracks.
They are used, but perhaps not much.
At the Army Museum, across from Lenin's statue, the guard at the entrance gate shakes his finger. It's closed, of course. Monday. The Highlands Coffee wedged into the edge of the complex seems unappealing, so I walk on.
Up the street and right onto a wide, busy street lined with beautiful old trees, wondering what to do...but there are airplanes over there, across a walled courtyard. Will a finger-shaking guard appear? No, nor does anyone else.
There's also a stone and gold-washed building on the other side of the grassy square.
It's the gateway to the former Forbidden City where Hanoi's royalty once lived.
A shrine upstairs.
A dragon on the roof.
The steep stairs down.
On the other side of the Doan Mon relic, the signs for tourists are in place.
A symbol of Hanoi's imperial rulers, at the place where the nation's sacred spirits are supposed to converge.
Little is blocked off. Steep staircases lead to more little rooms with shrines, surrounded by large balconies.
But there's little hint of what these buildings once were. The blue signs are cumbersome to read in both English and French, and though the buildings are beautiful they evoke little. It's difficult to picure mandarins dressed in silk moving with grace from one building to the next, or a king's children at play. The Citadel is empty.
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