CHEERS: You can expect a warm welcome from strangers in Hà Nội. Photo courtesy of Jonathan Lin

Alex Reeves - @afreeves23

As I get ready to head down south to London after another stint back in the North East of England, I find myself reflecting on the two places I now call home. If home truly is where the heart resides, then mine has certainly been split in two, with half left on each side of the world.

There’s something about the familiarity of Teesside folk that’s hard to replicate. The wit is dry, the conversations unfiltered, and no one lets you take yourself too seriously. Yet I can’t help but draw a line between that and the kindness I’ve been shown in Hà Nội.

The people who’ll walk with you if you ask for directions here reminds me of the countless strangers back east who’ve gone out of their way to help me, asking nothing in return. These communities might wear different clothes, but at least there’s still a sense of them that’s tangible.

In some parts of the UK, particularly those with a big famous clock, talking to a stranger is tantamount to social battery. Say hello, ask for directions, thank the bus driver, and prepare to be stared at like you’ve landed from Mars. But sit yourself down in a pub up north, and know that you’re at high risk of a conversation, whether you want one or not. It’s not far removed from pulling up a plastic stool at the Bia Hơi.

You could be a billionaire or a bin man, it doesn’t matter, everyone drinks the same beer and fights to pay the bill, it’s a real leveller. These examples of openness aren’t a global guarantee. They’re not even a national one.

I think of the times I’ve been pushing a motorbike through the heat of a Hanoian street, only for a stranger to roll up behind me and nudge the bike along with his foot all the way to the nearest garage. Or the Tết holiday, when a friend’s bike broke down in the middle of nowhere, just as the family was sitting down for their new year’s feast. One mechanic, twenty kilometres from anything else, stopped what he was doing and worked for over an hour. No complaints. We all cheered in unison when the engine finally started. What language barrier? That said, try knocking on a British door with a flat tyre on Christmas Day and see what kind of welcome you get.

These moments aren’t rare. They’re signs of a society that hasn’t been entirely consumed by the worrying cult of self, still not quite corrupted by the hyper-individualisation I see here and elsewhere in the west. Việt Nam to me is a place where community still means something. That might shift, especially with the ticking time bomb I see coming through the doors of my device-addicted classrooms. But this isn’t a moan for once. Not today.

Today, I just want to say that after only two weeks away, I already miss Việt Nam. And I’m grateful for all the warmth I’ve found there. The journey isn't over. I’m looking forward to getting back and picking up where I left off. Until next time, stay kind.