“Do not be angry with the rain; it simply does not know how to fall upwards.”
— Vladimir Nabokov.

Dear you,

It’s been a few weeks, how have you been? Did your daughter eventually get to school on time? Did those orders of fresh phở reach your hungry customers safely? As for you, how long did it take for your nice leather shoes to completely dry? I’m sorry that your poncho broke and water poured onto your leg.

I’m doing fine — soaked pant hems, dirty tires, and a tinge of stress having to drive under the drizzle — but three decades in Saigon have honed my resilience in the face of the city’s monsoon. Now, I can catch even the most microscopic whiff of petrichor moments before the rain comes, and I’ve long etched into my skin a reminder not to take off my raincoat too early, even though for one moment it might seem like the pouring has ceased. A spare pair of flip-flops in my bike’s trunk to deploy in place of hard-to-dry footwear, an ability to unfurl my poncho in less than 30 seconds, and a sense of acceptance that the water is a welcome element of life.

I apologize for not getting your name, but I doubt you’ll remember me, like how I don’t remember you, apart from visual and auditory slivers that come and go as time marinates them in my memory. A Hello Kitty slipper, the ding of a phone reminder, a grin as warm as the sun of summer. Would we be friends had we encountered one another elsewhere in this 10-million-people town?

For a fleeting fifteen-minute while in our lives, we were here, huddling in the cavernous space under this bridge that crosses over the canal, like a shoal of remoras beneath a whale. We were here, united by our need to wait out the battering of rain, just imprudent enough to forget to bring a raincoat in the face of the ferocious southern rainy season, and just freezing-cold enough to not care about the irked beeping of incoming traffic admonishing us for taking up street space.

I’ve been on both sides of the beeping. I’ve nonchalantly stopped along the road under an underpass to hide from the monsoon and I’ve honked at gaggles of rain-hiders who slowed down my commute in a time of urgency. What I’ve learned is that everybody forgets as soon as the rainwater stops falling. Enduring the pitter-patter of a Saigon rain is a stressful daily ritual these days, so I consciously remind myself to practice empathy every time I look up to the endless sky and drops of rain stare down at me. There is a certain camaraderie that grows within those who have undergone trying times together, and it was absolutely my pleasure to have experienced our fifteen minutes’ worth of camaraderie together.

Yours torrentially,

Rain-hider.

Bát Tràng has been producing ceramics for over 700 years, but it’s the recent decades that interest me most: a period in which this small village has mirrored Vietnam’s rapid economic growth.

Once focused on supplying the domestic and regional market, Bát Tràng is now a global producer in ceramics, exporting goods around the world while also drawing over 100,000 tourists annually who come to visit its museums, browse the markets, and try their hand at pottery. 

What strikes me most about Bát Tràng is the coexistence of scales: sprawling factories operate alongside more than 1,000 family-run workshops. When you walk its narrow streets, it feels like every household is involved in ceramics in some way, mixing clay, firing kilns, loading motorbikes. Production spills into alleys and courtyards, into kitchens and storefronts.

This photo album traces that ecosystem — from raw materials to finished wares — documenting a working village that sits at the intersection of tradition, industry, and transformation.

Bát Tràng is a microcosm of Vietnam’s economic story: rapid growth alongside deep tradition. Here, something beautiful, sacred, or functional emerges from nothing more than a lump of earth — a quiet, constant act of transformation.

The maze-like alleys of Bát Tràng, where tradition, craftsmanship and mass production take place in almost every home.

Red brick weathered factories overshadowed by towering modern factories amid Bát Tràng’s evolving skyline.

A massive mixing drum processes the raw clay, the starting point of ceramic creation.

A vast pressing machine, a next step in the industrial scale metamorphosis of raw clay into mass-produced ceramics or hand-crafted beautiful objects; everything stems from the same earth.

A freshly pressed clay disc is removed from the machine to continue in the next step in the process.

Experienced hands shape a small figurine.

A worker carries a large pot from the kiln into storage.

An empty break area within a factory, where workers find moments of rest among the ceramics and grab a cup of tea or coffee.

Pots of vivid glazes, ready to be applied, revealing the artistic side of Bát Tràng’s production.

A worker applies glaze to mugs using a machine, a glimpse of the mass production process.

Rows of clay products and machinery in one of Bát Tràng’s larger industrial spaces.

An artisan carefully works on a traditional pot, one of the last studios preserving designs of this type.

After extended working sessions to gather insights from experts and locals, Vietnam’s state government has announced the final version of the country’s administrative map.

Details of the most recent national administrative consolidation were listed in Resolution No. 60, which was officially approved by the central government on April 12, reports Thanh Niên. According to the plan, the number of localities in Vietnam will go from 63 to just 34 after the merger, including 6 municipalities and 28 provinces.

The eventual consolidation was decided based on five main pillars of criteria: area and population; history, tradition, culture, religion, and ethnicity; geo-economics; geopolitical considerations; and national security. 

Eleven of the 63 old localities will remain the same, including Hanoi, Huế, Lai Châu, Điện Biên, Sơn La, Lạng Sơn, Quảng Ninh, Thanh Hóa, Nghệ An, Hà Tĩnh, and Cao Bằng. Every locality south of Huế will be merged with their neighbor(s). Some standout examples include Hồ Chí Minh City, which absorbs nearby Bình Dương and Bà Rịa-Vũng Tàu provinces, growing to a new population of over 13 million residents.

Similarly, Quảng Nam Province becomes part of Đà Nẵng City, Hải Dương Province becomes part of Hải Phòng City, and Sóc Trăng and Hậu Giang provinces will become part of Cần Thơ City. A complete list of administrative changes is available for viewing below.

Apart from changes on the national level, each locality will also undergo mergers on the ward/commune level as the district level and province-level cities will be dissolved. 

Vietnam’s administrative map has gone through numerous rounds of adjustments depending on the economic, demographic, and national security needs of the time. Most recently, in 2008, the entirety of Hà Tây Province and Vĩnh Phúc’s Mê Linh District were merged into Hanoi. In previous consolidation rounds, some old geographic designations have come and go, now only existing in old media and works of literature, such as Sông Bé Province (now Bình Dương and Bình Phước) and Minh Hải Province (now Bạc Liêu and Cà Mau).

Graphic via Vietnam News Agency.

[Top image via Sách Tiếng Anh Nhập Khẩu]

In Chợ Lớn, every Tết, amid the aroma of burning joss sticks and an onslaught of red-color decorations is the echoing beats of lion dance instruments. For generations of Saigoneer, the presence of múa lân, or lion dance, is a sign of festivity and celebration.

On the morning of March 30, Thanh Niên reports, at a ceremony, the Hồ Chí Minh City Department of Culture and Sports announced the official decision made by the Vietnam Ministry of Culture, Sports, and Tourism to welcome Saigon’s lion dance performance art as the latest national intangible cultural heritage.

Though it’s often known by the short hand múa lân, the art form can feature a number of different dances by performers in lion, kirin or dragon costumes. Some versions of múa lân incorporate elements of acrobatics as dancers balance on tall pillars or play ball.

Hoa Vietnamese communities believe that dances performed by mythological creatures symbolizing strength, intellect, and prosperity would ward off unlucky spirits and bring great fortunes. Thus, lion dances are often organized on important occasions like Lunar New Year, groundbreaking ceremonies, or even launching parties for new businesses.

During the recent event, the department also officially recognized seven venues in Saigon as new city-level historical-cultural relics. These include Tân Định Market, Mariamman Hindu Temple, and Trưng Vương High School (D1); An Khánh Pagoda, Long Bình Pagoda, and Long Hòa Pagoda (Thủ Đức City); and the campus of Saigon University (D5). Including the new additions, HCMC currently has 200 such locations.

Being recognized as a national intangible cultural heritage would help emphasize the important role of lion dance as part of Saigon’s diverse ethnic makeup and encourage further actions by the people and policymakers to preserve and promote it. As of 2023, the list consists of 485 entities from across Vietnam, from the nationally famous Bát Tràng ceramic craft to lesser-known bánh pía Sóc Trăng.

In Saigon, some previous cultural heritages that made the list include Tết Nguyên Tiêu, the music performance art đờn ca tài tử, and the Nghinh Ông Festival.

In recent years, stories about climate change's impacts on the lives of Vietnamese people have been increasingly making the news.

According to the Ministry of Natural Resources and Environment, Vietnam is among the six countries most severely affected by climate change worldwide. In rural areas, extreme weather often manifests as natural disasters such as floods, while in urban areas like Saigon, prolonged heatwaves pose the greatest challenge.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

As the dry season sets in, city dwellers find themselves battling record-breaking temperatures. Heat rises from the asphalt, blending with vehicle exhaust and musty fumes from narrow alleys to form dense and suffocating clouds of air.

In response, people rush to air-conditioned cafes and shopping centers, seeking refuge from the relentless heat. Those who must venture outside wrap themselves in jackets, masks, or hoodies. But not everyone has the privilege to easily escape the scorching sun.

Photo by Cao Nhân.

Among those most affected are informal workers in urban areas. Jobs like construction, street vending, motorbike taxi driving, or garbage collection often lead to prolonged exposure to the scorching sun.

The Vietnamese Ministry of Labor has advised outdoor workers to rest in cool places and stay hydrated to prevent heatstroke and reduce body temperature. While scientifically sound, these recommendations overlook the harsh reality that shade and clean water are often luxuries for those working outside.

Unassuming water coolers and messages of kindness. Photos by Cao Nhân, Trinh Nguyễn, Paul Christiansen.

A day’s worth of bottled water can cost as much as a light meal and is cumbersome for those constantly on the move. Yet access to free, clean drinking water is limited.

Fortunately, much like mushrooms sprouting after the rain, “grassroots” water sources have appeared during dry spells in every corner of the city. Bearing friendly messages like “Free drinking water” or “Cool water for travelers,” stainless steel containers and insulated buckets dot the sidewalks to serve as mobile wellsprings.

Anonymous benefactors. Photo via VnExpress.

Operating on a beautiful principle of “those with excess give, those in need take,” kind-hearted benefactors fill these stations with iced tea, filtered water, and sometimes even snacks. People can stop by to quench their thirst and cool down for free. There are no thank-yous, no observers, just thousands of silent exchanges happening daily.

This heart-warming practice is not new. In the rural southern regions of the past, residents would set up leaf huts, water jars, and coconut ladles along the roads. Travelers and neighbors could stop to rest and refresh. While the jars may now be replaced with modern materials, the spirit of local generosity continues to flourish.

Clay jars were often used to collect rainwater for daily use and to offer refreshment to passersby. Photo via Phụ Nữ Online.

In response to the severe heat, the city government is piloting more public water stations. Until then, these unmarked containers will continue their humble legacy: providing water and support to ease the hardships of daily life.

Free water pitchers provide blue-collar workers with much-needed refreshment. Photo via Dân Trí.

This article was originally published in 2024.

What does a mango flower look like?

Despite eating hundreds, if not thousands, of mangoes in my life, until last month I wouldn’t have been able to say. The phalanxes of yellow flowers assembled amongst the lush leaves brought delight followed by existential dread.

I profess to love fruits and have written about this love at length. And yet, what does the flower of a jackfruit, lychee, mangosteen or custard apple tree look like? Without Googling, I wouldn’t know. How can I love something I know so little about? And the two are inextricably linked: fruits form only after a flower has been pollinated with the fertilized ovules contained within ovaries that develop into fruit to protect the seeds. 

The simple process of flower to fruit. Graphic via Klorane Botanical Foundation.

I suspect I share this absolute unfamiliarity with fruit tree flowers with many of Saigoneer's readers. And worst of all, picking from a fruit plate at karaoke, strolling a local market, or placing a sinh tố order has never forced us to reflect on how little we know; how we are wholly untethered from the totalities of an item we crave. It would be like never having thought to ask about a romantic partner's hometown or family.

Left: Passion fruit flower. Photo via Wikimedia / Right: Papaya fruit flower. Photo via Wikimedia.

When sharing this horrific realization with friends, some pushed back, noting that they grew up beside orchards and can still picture the hypnotically purple swirls punctuating passion fruit flowers and the swirling, throwing star-esque papaya flowers. Yet, I fear this is a dwindling experience. As Vietnam urbanizes and farming continues to automate, even fewer people will be able to identify the flowers of different fruit trees. This means we will have a less profound and more incomplete appreciation for fruits in particular, and the natural world in general. 

The word anemoia means to long for something that you may have never known. I now have anemoia for lazy childhood shortcuts through orchards surrounding my house, unconscioulsy learning the flowers that precede each juicy bite of fruit. Fruits are consequential to Vietnam’s economy, culture and identity; we owe it to them to learn about the flowers they transform from.

It is a street, not a river, that comes to mind when people talk about vibrant fish in Saigon. Located in District 5, Lưu Xuân Tín Street is only approximately 500 meters long, but it is home to dozens of aquarium businesses.

From just a few stores at the beginning, Lưu Xuân Tín is now home to rows of aquarium supply shops. Photo by Đỗ Anh Chương.

The short thoroughfare is more than 40 years old, known amongst enthusiasts as the oldest street for ornamental fish in the city.

The street entrance. Photo by Đỗ Anh Chương.

Lưu Xuân Tín Street is not only a well-known place for commerce, but it is also a popular tourist destination in District 5. Aquarium aficionados in Saigon and merchants from all around Vietnam come here to buy aquatic pets and fish-keeping items.

“There were only a few stores when I initially visited, then more and more [appeared]. Fish dealers gradually took up residence here, transforming it into an actual market,” Đặng Thị Thủy, a local beverage vendor, tells me. She has been selling refreshments here since 1992.

Cô Thủy runs the street's refreshment stop. Photo by Trần Duy Minh.

Traders often sit around her drink stall to conduct business. “My place is kind of a gathering point for aquarium businesses,” she proudly shares.

Fish merchants discuss their trade and prepare fish for customers right on the street. Photo by Trần Duy Minh.

Many merchants who do not have brick-and-mortar stores here cut fish deals on the street. “I don't have a store and I sell aquarium fish wholesale,” Phạm Kiều Oanh, an aquarium fish merchant, says. “I've been doing this for nearly 30 years.”

Tank maintenance is a constant task at these ornamental fish stores. Photos by Trần Duy Minh.

In the beginning, Oanh started her business by selling feeder fishes here. Then her trading network grew bigger, and she started selling aquarium fish wholesale.

Apart from aquatic animals, shops also sell a range of knick-knacks so customers can decorate their tanks any way they see fit. Photo by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

While there are no official business hours, Lưu Xuân Tín Street is open every day from as early as 4am to as late as 5pm. Traders, buyers, and sellers arrive on the street early in the morning to start a new working day.

Photos by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

“I come here to work every day between 4 and 8am. I eat breakfast and have a cup of coffee here, then I meet with the buyers and direct my employees to deliver the fish to fulfill the orders,” Oanh shares.

Fish nets for fish, not fish nets for humans. Photo by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

Oanh previously worked as an embroiderer. Her older brother then introduced her to the aquarium fish industry. She and her husband are both working in the ornamental fish market, which provides the majority of their family's income.

Trays of aquatic plants. Photo by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

“This business does not make me rich, but it allows me to live well and support my family. I'm 57 years old now. No one wants to hire me because I am too elderly, this business is a good fit for me,” she says.

Scores of vivid fish species are available for purchase here. Photos by Đỗ Anh Chương.

Oanh runs an aquarium fish farm from her house in District 8. She returns home to take care of the fish when she's not on the street cutting deals and confirming orders.

Photos by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

“Every day, I take care of the fish as if they were my children. I have been engaged in this business for a long time, and I love it. I don't want to change to another job,” Oanh says.

Goldfish in giant bags on the pavement. Photo by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

While the formation of this "aquarium street" was a spontaneous development, its existence has brought about positive impacts on the livelihood of Saigoneers living in the area, whether they are directly involved in the ornamental fish trade.

“I started my business here when I was 28 years old, and I am now 60 years old. My drink stall has many regulars and is well-visited. Thus, my life is nice and stable,” Thủy claims.

Photos by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên and Đỗ Anh Chương.

Even when she is not present, her regulars frequently come to get drinks on their own and then settle their "tab" later. "I don't have to worry about my drink stand, and I sometimes just leave it there to let it run on its own," she says with a smile.

Photos by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

Thủy has been selling drinks on this street for so long that she has gained a lot of knowledge about the aquarium trade here. When new dealers arrive, she is always happy to help out.

Aquatic plants to be grown in tanks. Photo by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

"I often advise newcomers on how to buy aquarium fish cheaply and efficiently here," she explains. "I love this street because everyone here is cordial. We love and support each other whether we are buyers or sellers, rich or poor."

What is this? Houses for fish? Photos by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

For some long-term members of Lưu Xuân Tín's little fishy enclave, the street has become much more than just a location to set up shop and gain an income.

A budding fish-keeper accompanies their dad on his morning fish run. Photo by Trần Duy Minh.

"This place is like my second family, and the people here are like my family members. Talking with them is pleasant and fun. The time I spend here is the happiest of my day," Oanh shares.

This article was first published in 2022.

I am not a plant person. So when even I notice the abundance of vườn kiểng — a place selling a myriad of plants — it must mean that Saigoneers truly love buying plants. Some of my friends, who are also Hanoians, asked me one day to visit these vườn kiểng and look for Tết plants: “Let’s celebrate Tết the way northerners do, you know?” And somehow, being amongst the plants brought me right back to Quảng Bá Flower Market in Tây Hồ.

In Vietnam's Tết plant traditions, northerners tend to prefer peach blossoms (hoa đào), while southerners like apricot blossoms (hoa mai); my family’s thing, however, is kumquat trees (quất or tắc). This thought process runs through my mind every year whenever my dad drags me out on January 22 or 23 of the lunar calendar to Quảng Bá to procure our kumquat tree for that year’s Tết.

Generally, kumquat is also a popular Tết ornamental tree in northern families — all of my friends and relatives have (at least) one in their houses too — but it often plays a supporting role to the star that is hoa đào. My family, however, cherishes kumquat just as much as peach blossoms, or even more so. My mom is perfectly happy with buying flowers at the nearby local market, but my dad usually insists on going to Quảng Bá for kumquat — a habit that has been ingrained in me when Tết approaches. That’s why I accept my friends’ invitation with a concrete determination to find myself a mini kumquat tree, keeping the Quảng Bá Market tradition alive.

The journey to find a plant nursery was short and easy. There is a whole “complex” of them on a long stretch of Nguyễn Hữu Thọ Street, which links District 7 with downtown Saigon, so I didn’t even need to search for any specific name, but rather just went there and randomly picked one to enter. It wasn’t intentional either — the last days of a year are always hectic, piling on my own stress over moving — so the trip was made simply because it conveniently aligned with the route required for my other errands.

I was concerned that there might be no kumquat tree sold this early before Tết, but to my surprise, the kumquat trees were not only there but also proudly presented right on the front, lining up like a little army of salespersons inviting people to come in. The trees look spectacular, lush with leaves and adorned with round kumquats, each about the size of two thumbs pressed together. The whole plant can be held within your palms, albeit a little heavy.

Even though the trees are miniature, they hOld the energy for the entire Hanoian Tết celebration. Standing in that bustling vườn kiểng, surrounded by others asking for prices and buying different plants for Tết decoration, I felt a sense of connection to my culture and the shared experiences that come with celebrating Tết. Maybe, the little kumquat tree now placed on my table can be more than just a Tết plant, but also a reminder of my roots and traditions, which can still be kept despite any life changes.

When you get a new toy, it's only reasonable to take it out to play with as often as possible.

Thus, I’ve been finding excuses to ride the HCMC Metro frequently over the last few weeks. This past weekend, I was curious to experience the atmosphere of the first ride of the day; and, because I couldn’t convince any of my friends to meet me at the station before 5 am, I went solo.

A special thrill of metro systems generally, and Saigon’s in particular, is that they provide the perfect music listening environment. It’s madness to listen to music if you’re driving in the city, and even if you’re walking, on a Grab, or even a bus, the city’s sonorous white noise makes music an afterthought. But the calm, quiet metro allows you to foreground your tunes of choice. 

Photo by Paul Christiansen.

But what should you listen to?

In offering Metro playlist advice, I’m not going to bother suggesting particular songs or artists; my niched and dated tastes would certainly fall on deaf (if not Def Jux) ears. Rather, after fumbling through my iPod on the route to Bến Xe Miền Đông and back, I’d like to share a few broad suggestions:

Avoid nostalgia. It can be tempting to reach for favorite songs from formative days that call to mind comfortable memories, but in this context, it doesn’t make sense. Your brain will shudder at the juxtaposition of familiar emotions with the novel experience of swooshing through the cityscape surrounded by scintillating surfaces. Stick to new, or new-to-you music.

Prioritize lyrics. The uniquely quiet setting and freedom from distraction afford ample focus on lyrics. So while you can press play on a jazzy instrumental, go for something whose lyrics you can absorb fully. You might discover profundity lurking in a line you’d otherwise let whisk pass like a racing Metro train on the horizon. Allow me to go back on what I promised and suggest the Silver Jews because of singer-songwriter David Berman: “An anchor lets you see the river move.” 

Go global. Suggesting music unrelated to Vietnam may at first sound odd coming from a publication invested in deep explorations of Vietnamese culture, history and lifestyles. Yet, the metro represents the nation’s further integration into an amorphous global sphere where concepts of unique culture clutch the fringes of multinational touchpoints. The very concept of a metro system is not Vietnamese, nor is it of any singular nation or people. Let your listening be the same. Japanese city pop, Finnish metal, Jamaican reggae, Polish polka; let your ears hurdle through geographic barriers. 

I don’t think I’d be able to make a list of best places in Saigon to listen to music, because the only destination I’d know to put on it would be the Saigon Metro. Maybe, it's not convenient for most people’s routines or commutes, but it’s damn ideal for that, and thus we can consider the entire project an undertaking to promote art while in the city.

Dustbins, tree branches, advertising stands and tarps, leftover Christmas decorations, whatever pot, pan, ladle or utensil left unattended in the family kitchen, and at least one street vendor’s bánh khọt mold: whatever wasn’t bolted down got caught up in the wave of đi bão that filled Saigon’s streets last night. 

When the final whistle blew on Vietnam’s hard-fought victory over Thailand in the ASEAN Cup finals last night, we all knew what was coming. Like a maelstrom that begins with raindrops followed by thunder, it started with plastic horns followed by banging metal and revving engines. 

Photo by Paul Christiansen.

Taking a grab from the Phạm Ngũ Lão Ward restaurant where I watched the game to my apartment in Phú Nhuận was out of the question. Even if I were to get a driver, that would mean missing out on one of the most glorious elements of modern Vietnamese culture: đi bão. 

Photos by Paul Christiansen.

Of the thousands that waved flags and shouted atop bikes in the city, I doubt many were ardent football diehards. Few would be interested in discussing shrewd corner kick arrangement to disallow a ball from bouncing in the box, or transition offense utilizing the wings. The night wasn’t about football, really. It was about celebrating Vietnam, as understood through collective victory. 

The day had begun with concerns over camouflaged neighbors narcing to collect a cut of recently upped traffic violations and ended with bikes violating every rule imaginable in the name of collective jubilation. Drivers extended hands across road dividers in an endless series of high-fives while red lights ushered in opportunities for impromptu hype-man to dismount and lead the crowd in chants. Shirts came off, and cheeky signs scribbled on cardboard went up.

The crowds after Vietnam’s Quarter-Final Victory Against Syria in the 2018 Asia Games. Photo by Sebastia Galbany

Culture is an increasingly sticky word, and the more one examines it in a globalized world, the more one might suspect it's just a gimmick to sell tours and employ academics. Sometimes, I question if culture is little more than whether one removes the anchovy guts before fermenting the fish into sauce. The only difference between Thai fish sauce and Vietnamese fish sauce is often how long it sits in the barrels, after all. But then, a night like last night occurs when Vietnam erupts in an outpouring of national love and pride and fellow feeling. These emotions surely exist elsewhere, but no nation expresses them with the same sights, sounds, smells, and feels. You don’t have to be a football fan, but if you want to understand Vietnamese culture, schedule your trip around international football tournaments and hope you get lucky.

[Top image: After Vietnam’s Quarter-Final Victory Against Syria in the 2018 Asia Games. Photo by by Sebastia Galbany.]

Is “out with the old, in with the new” the new motto when it comes to Saigon's real estate scene?

Saigon used to be full of old apartment buildings; some were built in the 1950s or 1960s while others could be dated back to French colonial times. Many of these buildings have been inhabited by the same families over generations. People know each other. It is almost like a vertical village with shops, markets, restaurants, etc. However, in recent months, more and more of these structures are being torn down due to either safety reasons or to make way for snazzy new real estate projects.

View into the courtyard and hallways of an old apartment building in District 4 (2013).

The photos in this series have been taken between 2008 and 2013; by now, some of the buildings portrayed here have already ceased to exist. These include the Hotel President on Trần Hưng Đạo Street, a former apartment building reserved for American GI’s during the war, and the Eden Building right at the corner of Đồng Khởi and Lê Lợi streets. The former was a magnificent French apartment block with a specific design seeking to keep the its interior cool even on a hot summer day.

The Eden also bore witness to a significant event of the past: it was once home to the AP office where famous war photographer Nick Ut filed the famous photo of Kim Phúc, the girl in the Napalm attack.

Step inside the mysterious realm of Saigon's heritage buildings through the photos below:

A resident of the building using her laptop in the dark.

Residents walk down the makeshift steel staircase in the apartment building formerly known as “Hotel President” in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (2013).

A young couple looking out of their window into the hallway of Saigon’s appartment building known as Hotel President. Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (2008).

A sofa standing in the hallway of the “President Hotel” an old decaying apprtment block in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (2013).

A man doing exercises in the old appartment building formerly known as Hotel President. Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (2013).

The outside of an old apartment building alongside Saigon's Trần Hưng Đạo Street, District 5 (2013).

A man standing checking his cellphone in the hallway of an old Saigon apartment building formerly known as Hotel President (2013).

An artist in his apartment in Saigon’s Eden building. Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (2010).

Christian Berg is a documentary photographer based in Ho Chi Minh City. You can find more of his work on his Instagram account here.

This article was originally published in 2018.

As my palm felt the glossy wrapping paper for my Secret Santa gift, I was transported to my early childhood Christmases — filled with warmth, wonder, and the bubbling discomfort of class insecurities.

My yonder years the mid-2000s were a peculiar time — an era of dial-up internet, floppy discs, knee-high jeans, bad haircuts, and middle-class aspirations ripe for the arrival of western trends and consumption habits.

Though Christmas had been nothing new in Saigon, especially within the Catholic community, it wasn’t until around this point that the holiday really took off among the Vietnamese public, its celebration a patchwork quilt of traditions — some borrowed and some improvised. Slowly but surely, the festivities took over local streets: homefront nativity scenes interspersed with elaborated mall installations and green-red decors flying off the shelves of business-savvy mom-and-pops. “Gift-giving” became the buzzword of the season through the sheer dedication of eager salesmen.

Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

Despite not knowing all the details, my kid self was intuitively thrilled with the vague concept of Christmas, as I was exposed to too many Disney Channel specials and was convinced that it would transform this period of my mundane life into a remarkable, or even yet, magical one. When my handicraft teacher asked my class to create Christmas cards for one another, I wrote the most heartfelt paragraph the vocabulary of a second grader could dispense.

Imagine my disappointment when I realized that in fact, unlike Disney, we weren’t all in this together, and that Christmas miracles were rather pricey.

Before the big day, I had dropped plenty of hints in hope that the man in the north, or at least my parents, would make my wish come true: I had strived for months to maintain my status as a top student, therefore I deserved a new Hello Kitty or Barbie backpack, especially one of the latest and trendiest models.

Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

On Christmas night, I left the window open, fearing that Santa would be confused by my Vietnamese house’s non-existent chimney. To my bewilderment, he arrived by early evening through the neighborhood’s front gate. My neighbor’s kids, dressed in matching clothes, squealed with delight as he laughed, handed them their gifts from the crumpled nylon bag and posed for several photos. It was his only pitstop in the neighborhood for the night.

By all account, he was markedly different from the stereotypical depiction of the portly and pink-cheeked Santa Claus. This was a scrawny man with distinctly tan skin and dark eyebrows that contrasted with the faux beard he was spotting. Plus, he was riding a Honda Dream, the same bike that my mom rode and not a deer of any kind. But I didn’t care about logistics or biology, I was upset that I didn’t get anything.

Eventually, I realized that wasn’t Santa culturally adaptive, but a performer paid to play a role for the night. Yet, the oddly transactional nature of it didn’t deter me from wishful thinking — a present was a present. By the time the next Christmas rolled around, I had already concocted a plan to ask my mother for a visit from Santa like some sort of bizarre celebrity meet-and-greet.

Visiting Diamond Plaza is a Saigon Christmas staple. Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

My mother, as the practical person that she was, plainly explained to me how as a family we could not afford the service. My anxiety was only soothed when a compromise was made — we would visit the big-box mall decorations for pictures and enjoy the festive atmosphere, free of charge. Mom made sure we got bundled up in our best attires to take photographs with the Christmas tree that towered over the entrance at Diamond Plaza, glittering with equally giant plastic ornaments, colorful lights, and artificial snowflakes. I was allowed one small offering, a tiny desk-size Christmas tree with miniature trinkets from a church market. It was not the full theatrics of a paid showman, but enough for me to brag with classmates for weeks to come.

As time passed, my Christmases became less about a jolly man squeezing through chimneys and more about finding the best deals at year-end sales. My family’s feast grew a little fancier as the budget allowed more wreaths and log cakes. But memories of my mom and our modest celebrations remain and became more special over the years, knowing now from paying my own utility bills, that my mother provided the best she could at the time.

Perhaps after all, the real Christmas miracle was the parental love we learn to accept along the way.

Christmas is so globally celebrated that even in Saigon, as the coldest time of the year approaches, you can hear Christmas hymms echoing from homes in the alley, and spot houses adorned with Christmas trees, Santas, snowmen, regardless of their cultural relevance to Vietnamese culture. For me, one of the activities that truly embodies this global spirit of Christmas is watching Home Alone (1990). 

I first watched Home Alone in the early 2000s, when I was around 6 or 7 years old. At the time, the only way to see the film in Vietnam was to buy a bootleg copy from DVD stores, which my parents did for the whole family to enjoy. Back then, I didn’t know how to use a DVD player, so whenever I wanted to watch the film during Christmas or at any other time, I had to ask my dad to start it for me. Eventually, my whole family would join in, simply out of convenience since there’s only one TV in the house, and also it’s a fun family movie. This turned watching Home Alone into a family bonding experience for us during Christmas.

Furthermore, what makes this film so special for a Vietnamese kid, despite it being an American movie, is that for a child growing up in Saigon, where the weather is warm year-round, Home Alone was my first time seeing snow, something one only finds in areas distant from Saigon like Sapa. Which makes seeing snow on the TV screen even more magical, as to this day, I’ve never experienced snowy weather in person.

As time has passed, technology and the internet have made it easier for kids to access movies and explore the world around them, so they might view Home Alone as just another fun Christmas movie. But for me, and probably other Vietnamese around my age, the movie — with the hassle of buying bootleg DVDs and a weather phenomenon that seemed almost nonexistent in Vietnam — greatly conveys the Christmas spirit to a Vietnamese kid, even though it's entirely American.

They say you don’t buy a lottery ticket because you think you’ll win; you buy one so that you can fantasize about winning.

Perhaps it’s only because I recently watched Công tử Bạc Liêu, a movie in which a fascinating true story is reduced to shameless idolizing of the rich with pretty costume design, but I’ve been thinking a lot about money lately. In particular, what would I do if I had more of it?

While walking Saigon streets awash in perpetual buying and selling, from fruit vendors to car dealerships, hand-painted signs announcing rooms for rent, to glitzy billboards hawking vacation developments, I find myself wondering what I would do if I experienced a windfall. A winning state lottery ticket, the kind sold by wandering vendors and small shops, pays out a maximum of VND1.8 billion (approximately US$80,000) after taxes. It’s not that much, but it's enough to daydream.

The baubles offered on Shopee promise a painfully transient ointment to the human condition. Ditto any fancier objects offered in shops or boutiques. I’d buy my cat Mimi some of the wet food she likes, but I’m fine with Hảo Hảo. So putting aside the obvious most responsible option of saving it, what would I do with the money?

Công tử Bạc Liêu movie poster via SGGP.

Công tử Bạc Liêu was wealthy by birth, which is just a genetic version of the lottery. There is some further irony that his father amassed that wealth by profiting off the gambling addictions of his relatives and locals. In the film based on legends, Công tử Bạc Liêu uses the fortune to hold grandiose spectacles like cooking chè by burning cash and hosting an opulent prize fight. While these are merely selfish attempts to project an image, he justifies them with the explanation that “wherever Công tử Bạc Liêu goes, joy follows.” 

I know no greater communal provider of joy in Saigon than the zoo, but, sadly, it owes VND846 billion in tax debt, a staggering sum I’d be unable to make a dent in. Ditto the woefully beleaguered projects that could improve people's lives, such as the Bến Lức-Long Thành Expressway or the anti-flood system. I’d probably be better off giving the money to a small charity: Blue Dragon, Save Vietnam’s Wildlife, the Wisdom House project, or Sách hoá nông thôn project. 

Or maybe, the best use of the lottery money would be to simply hand it over to the street vendor who sold me the ticket. Surely they need it more than I do. It’s nice to imagine myself doing something like that. And fantasies, like movies, allow us to wallow in illusory versions of ourselves, even if we doubt we’d live up to them.

The water reached my shoulders, and when I stepped into the street I suddenly felt the current trying to pull me into its invisible grasp. A familiar feeling that set off an alarm inside my head: “Be careful! It looks like nothing, but don’t get caught in it.”

[Top photo: Bình, 24, poses with a broom outside of his home during the flood. “I was using that broom to push the trash stuck on the walls away.” Bình rented a house to open a coffee shop in a small alley in Hội An. However, the coffee shop has been closed due to COVID-19 and the flooding.]

When I first visited Hội An more than two years ago, almost every old house I saw had marks of the flood levels from years prior. These floods are actually an overflow of the Thu Bồn River, along which Hội An is built. This became abundantly clear when I stepped into the street and felt the current of the river nearly knock me off my feet.

Hội An Ancient Town sprung up around the banks of the Thu Bồn in central Vietnam, and for hundreds of years was a nexus for shipping routes around the world. In the 20^th century, ostensibly due to the river filing with silt (among other factors), the shipping hub was gradually replaced by Đà Nẵng and other ports that were more accessible to large sea-faring vessels. Hội An was left largely undisturbed by modern development, and in 1999 was designated a UNESCO World Heritage site.

These days in Hội An, there is a dam upriver and residents typically get a warning from the authorities before water from it is released. These warnings and preparation means flooding in Hội An is an inconvenience, but isn’t typically life-threatening. Locals are quite accustomed to the streets turning into a temporary extension of the Thu Bồn.

There hadn’t really been any flooding since I first visited Hội An in May 2018. After five days of heavy rain last month, however, I decided to visit the Old Town and see how people were dealing with the flood.

Bình, 24, plays in the flooded streets of Hội An, letting the current carry him along.

The first person I saw was Sa, standing in the door to the attic of her house, or the flood escape hatch, as it were.

There was a kind of beauty in the Old Town; ocher walls reflected in the turgid water, brown from the silt of the fields and mountains above. The revving and honking of motorcycles replaced by boats and the occasional paddle board.

By the early afternoon, water levels had receded considerably, and the street where the water had been up to my neck was now just over waist-high, making movement easier and safer.

Perhaps the most interesting, and certainly the most rewarding, part came two days later. As crews scraped the mud from the streets, my partner Trinh and I drove around Hội An to deliver photos and learn the stories from the people I’d encountered during the flood.

During the flood, local boat operators offered rides to people wanting to explore Hội An.

It was in these stories that I learned more about the flood, how the locals respond to it, and little details about the lives of the people living in Hội An. Stories like why Tuân was hauling his dogs back through the second-story window of his house, as well as his dogs' names and the meaning behind them. Or Sa, and why her house has a strange door in the attic. Bình, and what he was doing holding a broom in the middle of the flooded street, why he lives in Hội An, and how he deals with floods.

These small details brought me a greater understanding of Hội An and a deeper, more personal meaning to the photographs of the people.

A local boat operator paddles around the Old Town.

“Local foreigner” Thomas Weingärtner explores the Old Town on his inflatable kayak. Thomas paddled out the front door of his partially submerged homestay in Hội An.

The iconic Japanese Bridge partially submerged by the Thu Bồn River.

“The water was flowing strong. We had to paddle against the current so much that we were almost out of breath.” Năm and her husband live on An Hội Island (across from the Old Town) which was underwater. During the flooding, they gave tourists boat rides around Hội An Old Town.

“This ladder is used as a tool for us to climb down to the boat. It is tied to the balcony.” Nga holds her daughter Thảo, 6, on her balcony during the October floods in Hội An.

Nga and her daughter Thảo watch boats go by in front of their house.

Nguyễn Thái Học Street under water.

Sa stands at the emergency flood exit door built into the attic of her house in Hội An.  “If the water flow is too strong and rises fast, we have to escape through this door,” she explains.

“Normally, I just stay home to rest. I was riding the boat with my grandson that day.” Tí, 70, looks for clients around Hội An.

Tí, 70, paddles down Nguyễn Thái Học Street with her grandson.

Tuân enters his house via the upstairs window with his dogs. After trying unsuccessfully to enter the house from the submerged ground level door, his family stopped by in a boat and helped him get onto the awning with his dogs.

Tuân hangs his clothes out to dry.

A local woman washes the gongs from her house in the flooded streets.

This article was first published in 2020.

As a city that is perpetually either sweltering hot or halfway under water, Saigon weather rarely includes cool breezes or overcast mornings. And yet, over the past few weeks, the city has experienced a handful of chilly mornings and soft sunlight, a welcome change from the usual heat and humidity that often appears at sunrise and lasts throughout the day.

While this cool, fall-like weather doesn't last long — temperatures tend to return to scorching by mid-morning — take a stroll through Saigon around daybreak and you'll find some of the city's residents enjoying this brief respite from the Saigon heat.

A night shift security guard takes a smoke break after the graveyard shift.

A local patrolman gets ready for the day's work.

A xe ôm driver reads the day's newspaper while waiting for customers.

A xe ôm driver catches up on current events.

Passengers wait for their bus on Phạm Ngũ Lão Street.

An elderly man lights incense to place at an outdoor altar.

Commuters wait for a ride at the bus station on Hàm Nghi Street.

Students on the way to school.

Sunrise over Bùi Viện Street.

Trần Hưng Đạo Street, empty at daybreak, is filled with commuters during the morning and evening rush hours.

This article was originally published in 2017.

Across English-speaking countries such as the US and Australia, the Vietnamese diaspora established close-knit “Little Saigon” towns whenever they settled down, founding large markets, starting financial services, and introducing southern fares like gỏi cuốn and bánh mì to the local population. Elsewhere in Europe, however, the Vietnamese community is often known as “Little Hanoi,” due to the regional makeup of the first wave of immigrants. Some, like Prague’s Little Hanoi, have flourished to the point of being a “city within a city,” boasting its own self-sufficient administrative services, schools, and housing.

Sapa Market, the city's largest Asian neighborhood and the core of Little Hanoi, is just around 15 kilometers from central Prague.

Much of Vietnam’s initial relationship with Czechia started in the late 1940s and 1950s, when it was still part of Czechoslovakia (Tiệp Khắc in Vietnamese) — a segment of the Eastern Bloc under the influence of communism, following a planned economy. As part of this bedrock of diplomacy between communist nations, Vietnam started sending well-performing students to Tiệp Khắc for higher education.

Restaurants here seem frozen in time.

In 1955, the first-ever batch of Vietnamese students arrived in Czechoslovakia, comprising 16 delegates, all high school students from northern provinces like Phú Thọ, Thái Nguyên, Tuyên Quang, Bắc Ninh, Nghệ An, etc. The exchange program also sent students to neighboring nations like the USSR and Poland. They carried with them the hopes from the northern government that the graduates would return home later to contribute to the development of their hometowns. Many did, but some decided to make a home in Europe.

Bún chả is a star dish and the biggest signifier that this is a northern Vietnamese enclave.

The program went swimmingly for the next three decades until the dissolution of the Eastern Bloc. Still, the Vietnamese diaspora in European countries had grown so much and assimilated into the local societies, giving rise to the existence of Little Hanoi towns. Today, Vietnamese remains the most populous non-European demographic in the Czech Republic and Poland, with populations of dozens of thousands of people. The descendants of those who decided to stay decades ago grew up ethnically Vietnamese but fully integrated into the local society.

Signs with prominent Vietnamese-language texts are everywhere.

Visiting Prague’s Little Hanoi, officially known as Sapa Market, a feeling of strangeness and surprise will hit you first, as the Vietnamese language is everywhere. The entrance gate is bilingual, and a few signs might have minimal Czech, but the majority of signage is only in Vietnamese, promoting homemade bún cá, haircuts, leather goods, famous Czech crystals, and a slew of other Vietnamese-specific products that one might assume to be elusive this far from home.

Markets are often the heart of diasporic communities.

Sapa, as local media reports, is autonomous to the point of having its own “police” patrolling streets and clamping illegally parked cars. It also features a kindergarten, accepting kids as young as one year old, so their parents can go about their business in many of the compound’s Vietnamese-run enterprises, like financial services facilitating money repatriation back to Vietnam. But for anyone growing tired of the austerity of Eastern European food, Sapa Market is a welcoming salve, offering a dose (or many) of tropical freshness and well-seasoned noodle broths to bread-saturated palates.

That gourd sure is a show-er not grow-er.

Fish sauce, rice paper, tea and coffee from Vietnam are a given, but a wide range of fresh produce from home will surely brighten up one’s dreary day: herbs, dragon fruits, mangosteens, and surprisingly not wilted rambutans are abundant. And even if you’re not in the mood to shop for groceries, perhaps a glass of freshly pressed sugarcane juice is just the treat you need to quench nostalgic thirst — cô Mía not present, alas.

Fresh tropical produce on sale.

Elsewhere in metropolitan Prague, trendy Vietnamese restaurants run by second- or third-generation Vietnamese might offer diners a range of pan-Vietnam dishes like bánh mì, bánh xèo or gỏi cuốn, but at Sapa Market, the menus stay decidedly northern. It’s understandable, given their proprietors’ regional roots, but what’s astounding is the fact that the wealth of northern cuisine here might rival even Saigon’s culinary diversity.

Uncommon northern delicacies, like bún cá Hải Dương and ngan nướng, are on offer here.

Bún cá Hải Dương, for example, is few and far between in Saigon, while ngan — a type of Muscovy duck popular in northern Vietnam — is a less common poultry in southern provinces. Both are on offer here in Sapa Market. Those familiar with Hanoi eateries’ naming convention of putting together the owner’s name and a word describing their appearance will feel right at home with Chè Tuyết Béo.

Every diasporic community comes with its own quirks and issues, a fact to which any Vietnamese who’s studied or lived abroad can attest. Pressures to survive, to assimilate and even to succeed can and will bring out the darker side of human dynamics. Whether one enjoys or feels disillusioned by the existence of Little Saigons and Little Hanois, it’s at least comforting to know that the phở will probably be great. If all else fails, bet on phở, always.

Local streets are buckling under the pressure of Saigon's ever-increasing population density, here are the city's most frequently jammed roads, according to the municipal Department of Transportation. 

Nguyễn Tất Thành Street. Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

Connecting Districts 4 and 7, Nguyễn Tất Thành Street has experienced 811 traffic jams in the first nine months of the year, making it Saigon's most congested road, according to the HCMC Department of Transportation.

The current figure places Nguyễn Tất Thành Street on pace to beat its city-leading 978 traffic jams last year, according to Tuổi Trẻ. Serving as a major route for those from the southern part of the city entering and leaving downtown, the 3-kilometer road suffers morning and evening rush hour traffic.

Observers note that drivers on Nguyễn Tất Thành frequently ignore traffic rules and ride on the curb, impacting local businesses and nearby homes. The road currently operates at 140% capacity, meaning any minor accident causes further congestion chaos. Rainy season and periods when schools are in session make matters even worse.

The situation for Nguyễn Tất Thành is similar for the rest of the city's most traffic-prone areas. Specifically, in the first nine months of the year, Xô Viết Nghệ-Tĩnh has experienced 615 traffic jams; the Đinh Bộ Lĩnh-Bạch Đằng intersection has had 588; Trường Chinh Street between Âu Cơ Street and Tân Kỳ Tân Quý Street has had 569 and the An Phú intersection has had 554.

Regular traffic observed on Nguyễn Tất Thành Street. Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

Remedies for the curb-clogging commotion have been proposed, but currently, no solutions are in sight. The most recent plan put forth in 2015 proposed expanding the road from the four-lane road's current width of 14 meters to 37 or 46 meters, depending on the section. Unfortunately, delays and funding issues have thwarted the approved plan. Smaller measures such as banning large trucks and parking have proved ineffective.

A variety of street-widening proposals have also been put forth for some of the most affected areas, though citizens are acclimated to inaction. In the meantime, officials are pushing the use of apps, websites, and digital signs to share information about traffic conditions that can influence drivers' plans.

In addition to the previously noted causes of congestion, Saigon's growing number of drivers, particularly cars, is making the situation worse. The city is home to over 8.4 million motorbikes and one million cars, an increase of more than five million over the past 15 years. This year alone, car registrations have risen by 7% and motorbike registrations by 4.5%.

“If you know, you know.”

This is the best response to the question posed on internet message boards as to why the baggage claim after flights originating from Vietnam fill with so many boxes among the suitcases. Anyone who has stood beside a luggage carousel with Vietnamese passengers has seen the cardboard and styrofoam boxes with large names (always Nguyễn, as Reddit has observed) and addresses, often somewhere in California or Texas, written on numerous sides. You may have even helped pack or receive one yourself.

The explanation for the boxes is straightforward: they are cheaper and lighter than a full suitcase, which makes them ideal for bringing gifts to family and friends abroad. Dried fruit, fish, noodles, nuts, rice paper, clothes, sauce, spices, and, no doubt, a few oddities determined by the particular preferences of each recipient are the most common, albeit rarely declared items. And if the boxes are being re-used to bring items in the opposite direction, chances are there would be a few giant bottles of Costco medicine inside. 

It’s easy to understand why the boxes are so much more common in Vietnam than in other countries: large and somewhat recently established diaspora community consisting of close families with population centers in a few cities; economic growth and income disparities; and limited availability of niche items on the global market. 

But just because the airport box phenomenon can be easily explained to outsiders and feels commonplace to the point of cliche to insiders, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t pause to voice our appreciation. Ultimately, the boxes are visual proof of Vietnamese generosity and the importance of family as well as the preferred method of expressing emotions. One might not hear “I’ve missed you so much” when picking up a relative arriving from Vietnam, but you’ll feel it in the heft of the box placed in your trunk.

Few airports in the world have specialized devices and staff dedicated to wrapping cardboard boxes with secure plastic, so their presence at numerous departure entry doors at TSN underscores the sanctity of the habit. Passing them last week filled me with a tinge of shame. I proceeded to my flight’s check-in line surrounded by people ferrying stacks of boxes while I pushed a single duffel. I know I’m not Vietnamese, but I should have learned a thing or two by now about expressing my affection for a family that is too far away and whom I visit too infrequently. So as I prepare for my return to Saigon, I’m already thinking about what people there will be happy to receive, and what shrink-wrapped, dehydrated, bottled or locally produced goods will best reveal how happy I am to return to them.

Third place (noun): A space outside of one's home and workplace, where people meet and interact socially.

Where do we go to find a place that feels like home, but isn’t?

Not home, not the office — a third place is a space that stands apart from daily life, where one feel comfortable enough to connect with new people and form new relationships.

Sociologist Ray Oldenburg first coined the term “third place,” describing it as a cultural incubator where shared values take root. It’s a space where people can converse with others, express their individual identities, and find a sense of “belonging” through platonic and romantic bonding. The third place manifests in various forms, constantly evolving to fit the fabric of each society, whether it’s a neighborhood bar, a cozy used book store, or even a temple.

Saigon boasts more than 200 bridges.

In Vietnam’s major cities, rapid economic development and urbanization have led to the shrinking of public works and free communal spaces like parks, libraries, or playgrounds — the most natural and accessible third places for people from all walks of life. But human connection is resilient, and informal third places have emerged in the leftover cracks of urban infrastructure.

Workers resting under the Ba Son bridges.

In 2019, Russian photographer Nikolai Sokolov moved to Vietnam from Saint Petersburg. His work gradually shifted from abstract and landscape photography to street photography, drawn by “the people and the life here.” In the summer of 2024, he spent his time capturing everyday moments beneath Saigon’s many bridges.

“I’ve traveled all over Vietnam, and I often found myself sheltering under bridges to avoid the sun or rain. I started noticing that many people were sitting under these bridges, especially in the south. There was something special about them — each came with a different story. One day, a man asked me to take his picture, and from that moment, I knew I wanted to document the lives of these people. Each face, each gaze offered a story. And I wanted to share it.”

The first photo of the series.

Neglected and overlooked, bridges are far from anyone’s idea of a traditional third place, and the commuters who usually use them are passing through out of necessity. But in Nikolai Sokolov’s black-and-white photos, these anonymous bridges (though if you’re sharp, you might recognize them) come alive as tranquil yet vibrant sanctuaries. Beneath rigid concrete structures, rough patches of ground are transformed into playgrounds, gathering spots for friends and family, or simply a place to rest in the midst of the city’s constant motion.

Free-range ducklings, now available at your nearest bridge.

The sweet joy of swinging in the shade on a hot afternoon.

The first rule of cockfighting club is: you do not talk about cockfighting club.

Birds of a feather surely flock together.

“Dude, you cheating?”

Future stars of the national team?

Sisters and best friends.

Just middle-aged people casually flexing spines healthier than yours.

Dressed to impress.

“I already won. No point arguing now.”

Better safe than sorry.

Most definitely a good boy.

The bridge-side tango.

For some, this is the first place.

“What kind of school awards did you get this year?” “I barely passed, uncle!”

You can practically hear the squeak in this photo.

Cigarette smoke and dust.

Who’s coming in last this round?

Follow Nikolai Sokolov's work here.