As an avid traveler, I can swear at how vital literature has played a part in ratcheting up my craving to travel. There was Paul Theroux’s epic travelogue The Great Railway Bazaar, which made the idea of a long and arduous cross-continent train travel a charming one; or my personal favorite Jack Kerouac, who I singularly credit for inspiring me to a life of wandering, thanks to his spontaneous prose on On the Road. Without these books, I may not have seen much of the world as I have.

Like a cake covered with layers of sugary-coated tastiness, Hanoi’s cultural charms and character were enriched with a diverse set of colonial influences, mainly from the French, which brought a certain European flavor to the city’s architecture, food, and culture. Before the turmoil of a violent war would besiege the whole of Vietnam in the middle of the twentieth century, Hanoi represented the “grand statement of French urbanity and civilization in the tropics of Asia.” The vibe of the streets, dotted with charming French-inspired cafes serving freshly brewed Vietnamese coffee, pho soup, and baguette breads, mirrored the Parisian city.

Huddled at the roof of our lampitaw with other passengers, I sensed my leg muscles cramping a little bit. We’re not yet at the first hour of our six-hour sea journey to Calayan Island and I’m already uneasy with my chosen seating position, numbing my butt over a protruding piece of wood. A few minutes later, we started encountering the unstable waters of the South China Sea. For a moment I dreaded my recollection of tales of waves as big as a two-story house from happening, but as I stared out to the sea, I noticed the steady condition stretched out as far as my eyes could see. Feigning the worst, I regaled at the sight of the Volkswagen-sized breakers battering our lampitaw. “These waves can’t possibly topple our durable boat,” I told myself with a swagger and a brief recitation of prayer.