AS THE ELDER OF two sons, I grew up perhaps a bit closer to my family’s Vietnamese heritage than my brother did. For one, back when I was an only child, my parents—refugees from Vietnam who settled in Houston, Texas—spoke to me almost exclusively in their native tongue. It was only at school, where being different meant being a target, that I’d switch to English. So by the time Don (yes, it’s Dan and Don) came along, I was resisting anything Vietnamese, and the home he grew up in was distinctly more American.
To their credit, our parents gave us a familiarity not only with the language and food, but with Vietnam itself, where we travelled almost every year. As we got older, I shed my shame of being Vietnamese and developed a true sense of longing for Vietnam, having always felt somewhat out of place in America—even after I moved to New York City, where I lived for 11 years. Meanwhile, my brother flourished in Texas, donning cowboy boots and hats like a natural, and growing into the all-American persona with ease.
And so, while we were both proud to be Vietnamese American, I always knew that I had a deeper connection to being Vietnamese—culturally, linguistically and emotionally. Don stopped going to Vietnam regularly by the time he entered university, but I continued to frequently as an adult, forming friendships and building an entire community of my own.
I finally relocated from New York to Ho Chi Minh City—Saigon—in late 2022. And, after a few months in my new home, I wanted to show my brother the Vietnam I knew—not through our parents’ eyes, but through the perspective of a young, modern Saigonese. After all, despite having vastly different interests, my brother and I have always been able to bond over a love of delicious food, nice hotels, and a good, old-fashioned adventure.
Having lived in different cities for 14 years, we saw this two-week Vietnam brothers’ trip as not only an opportunity to have fun, but also as a way to reconnect with each other and share our ancestral home for the first time with our partners. Our four-person crew would start in the north before winding through the central region and ending up in Saigon, where our parents were born.
SETTING OFF IN JUNE, our first stop was Halong Bay, the UNESCO World Heritage site near Hanoi, whose name literally means descending (ha) dragon (long). I hadn’t been since 2012. As the only ethnically Vietnamese passengers aboard the luxury Peony Cruise ship, we began to timidly bond with the staff, testing our language abilities. Over the three days, I noticed my brother becoming more confident in his.
As we swam, kayaked and drifted between the sublime, towering, forest- capped landforms, I envisioned our ancient ancestors traversing these same waters, long before the notion of nationhood. Then, during a stop on scenic Cat Ba Island, we encountered more recent history, linked to our own story: the island had served as a key strategic site during the Vietnam War. As we biked blithely through the quiet, lush hills, I imagined this place before any of that had ever happened—an alternate universe in which my parents, like nearly two million others, hadn’t been forced to flee from their homeland as the Vietnam War ended in 1975 and in its aftermath.
After transferring three hours back to Hanoi, Vietnam’s political capital, we became conscious of our clumsy accent: an Americanized version of twangy 1970s-style Saigonese that clashed with the posh, sing-song dialect of the city. In Vietnam, the diaspora is known as Viet Kieu, which means “sojourning Vietnamese,” but was also once used perjoratively. In recent years, the label has been reclaimed as many diasporic Vietnamese “return.”
As we paraded up the city’s lively main artery to St. Joseph’s Cathedral, we reflected on the distant yet sacred faith of our father’s devout Catholic family. We strolled around the vibrant youth-packed pathways around Ho Hoan Kiem, or “Lake of the Returned Sword,” whose mythical inhabitant, a giant, extremely old turtle, is tattooed on my leg. By night, we enjoyed Chanel No. 5-inspired cocktails at the lobby bar of the iconic Capella Hanoi, another one of my favourite properties in town.
One standout from our visit to Hanoi? A bowl of noodle soup at my favourite pho shop in all of Vietnam: Pho Hang Trong— which is “hidden” down a dark alley and up a set a stairs in the living room of one Ms. Minh, who has been serving her clear-as-consommé northern-style pho for two decades.
The next stop on our Vietnam brothers’ trip was Danang, the modern, beachy “Miami of Vietnam,” and nearby, Hoi An, whose walkable UNESCO- listed ancient town is one of the most well-preserved examples of a thriving Southeast Asian port city from centuries past. We zoomed around the two cities on rented motorbikes—Don’s idea—and today, I credit this trip with helping me get over my fear and make the decision to purchase a motorbike of my own once I got back home to Saigon.
WHILE DANANG IS INDEED famous for beaches, our highlight here was our time on the nearby Son Tra Peninsula, a primeval forest national park that is home to several species of monkey (including the endangered red-shanked douc), a 17-story statue of the Lady Buddha, and the stunning, fantastical Bill Bensley-designed InterContinental Danang Sun Peninsula Resort.
We also enjoyed hiking up Danang’s Marble Mountains, a cluster of limestone formations housing dozens of small pagodas and grottoes. To access the temple complex, we ascended 156 stone steps, constructed in 1630. Though we are not Buddhist, Don and I both grew up lighting incense and praying at an altar to venerate our ancestors—and we did so here, too. It wasn’t strictly religious, but rather an act of respect that connects us to our childhood and culture.
Meanwhile, in Hoi An, a motorbike joyride through the rice paddies led us to an impromptu stop at a restaurant with basket boats—small, circular bamboo vessels ideal for navigating narrow waterways. As our drivers took us through a maze of canals and taught us to catch little crabs hiding in the mangroves, I chuckled at Don’s frustration in catching fewer crabs than me, knowing how competitive he is.
Back in town, we shopped for pearl necklaces and leather goods from local tailors like Yaly Couture, and enjoyed streetside bowls of cao lau—Hoi An’s specialty of rice noodles, pork slices, herbs and crispy croutons in a savoury broth. We closed our time in Central Vietnam with massages at Almanity Resort & Spa, which is known for its wellness experiences.
The next day, back on my home turf in Saigon, it was time to relax and reward ourselves for a trip well-spent: shopping at local streetwear complex 42 the Hood, coconut coffees from Cong Caphe, a vegetarian dinner at Hum, and pastries from the Park Hyatt bakery. To commemorate our adventure together, Don and I got matching motorbike tattoos (sorry, mom and dad, I don’t think you’ve seen these yet).
For our final night, we headed to Anan Saigon—the city’s first Michelin-starred restaurant, as of 2023—and tucked into chef Peter Cuong Franklin’s standout crab fried rice and Dalat-style pizzas. We took to the rooftop bar afterwards, which seemed a fitting way to end the trip: gazing out at the skyscrapers of bustling District One. Indeed, Vietnam has changed so much since we were kids, and so have we, but I hope that we will always return here together.
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Images courtesy of Dan Q. Dao, unless otherwise noted.
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