Tiny stools and unknown plates of food will become a normal part of your life. Illustration courtesy of Liz Noftle

By Alex Reeves - @afreeves23

So, you’ve been here in our cherished capital for a month already. The trauma of the visa queue, or lack thereof, the face of the immigration officer staring into your soul and the unnerving memory of an overpriced and anxiety-ridden taxi from Nội Bài to Hàng Buồm (am I really doing this?) have begun to fade.

Your stallion of a Yamaha Nouvo sits proudly outside your Tây Hồ sharehouse - one month deposit bruh! Everyone you live with has started dating a, or is themselves a ‘DJ’, you’re seriously considering it yourself, maybe you could start a collective? Yeah, the petrol light may be on, but who cares? You’ve made it to paradise.

Your Grab food order history is longer than your flight here, Bao Wow is definitely not considered ‘local food’ anymore and that stencil tattoo of a woman in a conical hat on a bicycle isn’t going to pay for itself. The sudden affordability of smashed avocado on toast without the side of aspirational working-class guilt has been a little too tempting recently.

You begin to realise that owning a film camera is a rather expensive new personality and your “I lost my wallet on Xuân Diệu” post didn’t yield the results you hoped for. Maybe you ended your night at Tom’s bar in Hoàn Kiếm only to wake up at dawn outside Cafe Thơm by West Lake. Your precautionary visit to Dr Binh’s wasn’t as cheap as your mates promised. You need a job.

That humanities degree and 120 hour TEFL have never felt like a better investment, you too can now have your documents lost by an inconsistent HR department as you attempt to cross the city at rush hour to make your next class. Perhaps you’re even ready to try and go local, after all you did notice that the Vietnamese fella next to you gets charged 10k less for his bowl of 'Foh' (that's correct, yeah?) and it just isn’t right!

You learned 1-10 easily enough and can even order yourself a beer now. It’s time to book a four-week intensive Vietnamese course that you attend twice before realising your teacher isn’t actually into you, they’re just being nice. You feel a little silly because people laughed when you asked Hanoi Massive how those two dogs got stuck together.

It’s time to get out of the city and reflect. Unfortunately driving to Sóc Sơn does not make you Tây Hồ’s answer to Francis Drake but rest assured, Ninh Bình really is THAT good. It’s been a hectic few months and you miss home. Thoughts of doubt swirl around your mind, your gran would probably help you out with a flight back.

My advice? Not every Anh ơi around Quảng An is trying to poison everyone's dogs and yes, Bia Hoi glasses, Marou chocolate and silk scarves are all suitable gifts for home. Hà Nội has its ups and downs, the choice you make next will decide if in 12 months you’ll be sharing these jokes with your new friends or bemoaning them from the pub back home. See you in Phú Quốc for Christmas?