In centuries past, Hoi An was the center of the world.
Sailors, explorers, and traders from every corner of Asia and Europe sailed up the Thu Bồn River to this ancient Vietnamese port city's crowded docks where merchants from China, Japan, Siam, India, Persia, Portugal, the Netherlands, and more all converged on this bustling port, filling its narrow streets with a remarkable mix of languages, cultures, and goods.
For those traversing the Silk Road and the shipping lanes of the South China Sea in the 16th and 17th centuries, all roads seemed to lead to Hoi An.
Now, the old city's honey-yellow merchant houses preserve the atmosphere of the prosperous trading port that once was.
Hoi An today is a UNESCO World Heritage City. I've visited before, but when I came here years ago, I was with my sister-in-law who isn't really interested in history. This time, I was determined to see more.
During a 1719 visit to Hoi An, Lord Nguyễn Phúc Chu named the bridge "Lai Viễn Kiều", which means "a bridge to welcome guests from afar".
Some say the statues are zodiacal, representing the fact that construction on the bridge began in the Year of the Monkey and was completed in the Year of the Dog. Others insist the pair of guardian statues were placed there to watch over the bridge and those who crossed it. The real meaning is forgotten, but I like both explanations.
The bridge has a small shrine attached to the side of it. According to local legend, the bridge was built to pin down the back of the Namazu, a monstrous mythical Japanese catfish whose movements were said to cause earthquakes and floods. By spanning the creature's back and constructing a small shrine on the bridge, the Japanese merchants hoped to keep the beast still and spare the region from its destructive tremors.
The coconut boat ride on the outskirts of town should have been my first indication that Hoi An had changed dramatically since my visit in 2018. I remembered it being popular, but nowhere near as crowded as it had become.
The pedestrian-only streets of Hoi An's Old Town were packed with visitors. Interestingly though, the vast majority appeared to be domestic tourists rather than international ones. It was another reminder of Vietnam's remarkable economic growth and the increasing prosperity that has allowed more Vietnamese families to travel and explore their own country.
Like many overseas Chinese merchants who settled throughout Southeast Asia, immigrants from the same region of China formed close-knit communities centered around shared dialects, customs, and ancestral ties.
They established assembly halls, sometimes called clan houses or congregation halls, which served as temples, meeting places, and centers for mutual aid.
In a foreign land, these halls provided a sense of identity and belonging while helping preserve the traditions of their homeland.
Walking on, we came to the Tan Ky Old House, one of Hoi An's oldest and best-preserved merchant homes.
Like much of Hoi An, the house reflects the town's role as an international trading port, blending Vietnamese, Chinese, and Japanese architectural influences beneath a single roof.
Stepping inside, we found a wonderfully preserved series of open-air rooms filled with antique furniture, family heirlooms, and everyday objects that offered a glimpse into what life was like centuries ago.
It was getting on into the late afternoon, and the bright sunlight was starting to wear us down. Dominik and I stopped in at a local cafe for a glass of Hoi An's specialty: ca phe muoi, or "salt coffee".
This is a rich Vietnamese coffee topped with a thick layer of lightly salted cream. The salt doesn't overpower the coffee, but rather it softens the bitterness and enhances its natural sweetness, creating a smooth, almost caramel-like flavor.
When I visited in the past, it was hard to find. Now, salt coffee seems to be served everywhere!
Refreshed, we set out to explore more of the historic old town's ancient courtyard manors.
These homes were once owned by mandarins, royal officials, wealthy merchants during the Nguyễn Dynasty.
Instead of serving a single dialect group or clan, it functioned as a shared meeting place where members of all five communities could gather to discuss trade, celebrate important festivals, and provide mutual aid.
In a bustling international port like Hoi An, where Chinese merchants played a central role in commerce, the assembly hall symbolized the cooperation that existed between these distinct regional groups.
Built in the 17th century, this shrine was dedicated to the sea goddess Mazu, an extremely important deity amongst the seafaring trading community of old China.
As the afternoon wore on and the sun climbed higher into the sky, the streets of Hoi An gradually emptied as the oppressive heat drove people indoors.
Then, it finally felt like we had the place to ourselves.
Dominik collects local paintings from his travels, so as we wandered through the streets of Hoi An, we stopped at art galleries and chatted with the artists sitting along the sidewalks, asking about the prices of their work.
As someone who wasn't interested in buying art, mostly because I didn't have the money, it was still a pleasant way to slow down and appreciate the town's thriving artistic scene.
To our surprise, many of the paintings cost only a couple of hundred thousand đồng (around US$10-ish), so Dominik picked up a canvas or two before we headed back to our hotel to cool down.
In the early evening, we made our way back out to the old town toward Hoi An Market.
The market is a bustling maze of narrow aisles packed with vendors selling everything from fresh produce and seafood to spices, clothing, souvenirs, and street food. While the building itself feels a little chaotic, that's part of its charm.
These translucent dumplings are made from finely ground rice dough, carefully folded by hand into dumplings that resemble blooming rose blossoms. The dumplings are filled with a mince of seasoned shrimp and pork, then steamed until tender and topped with crispy fried shallots.
Bellies full, we wandered down towards the riverside.
Nearly twenty years ago, the Top Gear team visited Hoi An for their Vietnam special.
At the time, the ancient town was still a relatively quiet place, and one of the highlights of their visit was the lantern festival, when hundreds of colorful paper lanterns floated gently down the Thu Bồn River once a month.
Instead of a peaceful evening on the riverside, we found ourselves shoulder to shoulder with thousands of other visitors. Even when I visited last back in 2018, I don't remember it being nearly as crowded.
The waterfront was packed with people jostling for photos, vendors called out from every direction, and a seemingly endless line of small boats competed for space on the river, each promising the perfect lantern-floating experience.
We found a spot to sit down, but we were not uninterrupted for long.
A little old lady hobbled over to Dominik and me as we sat trying to enjoy a moment of peace beside the river.
Though we couldn't understand a word she was saying, it was abundantly clear that she was determined to sell us something.
At first, we smiled politely and waved her away, but she refused to be discouraged. She walked away, but kept coming back again and again, saying something to us in Vietnamese and laughing.
Eventually, she produced a tiny plastic stool from the depths of her belongings, plopped herself down beside us, and settled in for what became an increasingly aggressive sales pitch.
At first, we smiled politely and waved her away, but she refused to be discouraged. She walked away, but kept coming back again and again, saying something to us in Vietnamese and laughing.
Eventually, she produced a tiny plastic stool from the depths of her belongings, plopped herself down beside us, and settled in for what became an increasingly aggressive sales pitch.
She began by enthusiastically showing us the lanterns she had for sale. When that failed to win us over, she switched again to her folding fans. Though we tried to gesture that we just wanted to sit quietly and watch the sunset over the river, she started lightly smacking Dominik with the fans instead, punctuating every swing with an animated stream of Vietnamese. We continued smiling, shaking our heads, and doing our best to ignore her, but the fan attacks only grew more relentless.
Eventually, after enduring nearly an hour of increasingly persistent whacks, Dominik surrendered. He stood up, bought one of her lanterns, and admitted defeat.
The "fan lady" burst into laughter, clearly delighted that her unconventional sales tactics had worked once again.
I took said lantern and the "fan lady" handed me a basket on a stick with which I could gently lower it into the water.
The fan lady clapped both of us on the back, laughed uproariously, and hobbled away leaving Dominik and I dumbfounded.
That was, I guess, just one of those strange experiences you get to have when traveling.
The walk back to the hotel, pushing through the crowds of people, was less enjoyable, however.
Still, I'm glad that we had gotten to see the lantern festival, which is now held every night instead of just once a month. It's become more and more popular and is one of Hoi An's biggest draws. Now, the original monthly lantern festival is celebrated by shutting off all of the lights in the old town along the river at night, which must make the lanterns on the water look even more magical.
We returned to the hotel for a good night's sleep. We were gradually making our way north, but there was still so much to see in the coming days.
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