The humidity hit me like a wall the moment I stepped out of the taxi, but today it felt different. This wasn't the oppressive heat of a tourist's first day—this was the familiar weight of a place starting to feel like mine. I was in Binh Thanh, the district I'd been circling since I arrived, and I had a list of apartments to see. The rain was holding off, for now, and I wanted to make the most of the morning.
My first stop was a modest one-bedroom flat in a narrow alley off Nguyen Van Dau Street. The agent, a woman named Chi who barely came up to my shoulder, showed me the place with a mix of pride and practicality. The room was simple: a tiled floor, a bed frame, a small kitchenette with a single gas burner. The windows faced a neighbor's wall, but the rent was about six point nine million dong a month—roughly three hundred dollars. For that price, you get a roof, a fan, and the constant soundtrack of the neighborhood: motorbikes, chickens, and the occasional karaoke session from the café downstairs. I wrote it down, but something felt off. I wanted a bit more light.
We walked to the next place, a newer building about ten minutes away. This one had a balcony, and for the first time, I could see the city's skyline—the Landmark 81 towering in the distance, a needle of glass and steel. The rent was higher, closer to nine million, but the space felt like a place you could breathe. Chi saw me looking at the view and smiled. 'This one's popular with young professionals,' she said. I nodded, but I wasn't ready to commit. I told her I'd think about it, and I meant it. Finding a home is like finding a rhythm—it takes a few tries before you settle into the beat.
After the third flat, which had a leaky bathroom and a landlord who was negotiating with two other people on the phone, I decided to take a break. I flagged down a Grab and headed to Cholon, District 5, the city's Chinatown. I'd been here on day one, but today I wanted to go deeper, past the tourist shops and into the markets that have been running for generations. The car dropped me at the intersection of Hai Thuong Lan Ong and Duong Van Minh, and I immediately felt the shift. The streets are narrower here, the signs are in Chinese as much as Vietnamese, and the air smells of dried herbs and incense.
I wandered into a small shop selling traditional medicines—jars of ginseng, dried sea horses, and mysterious roots stacked in glass cases. The owner, an elderly man with a gold tooth, was grinding something in a mortar. He looked up, nodded, and continued his work. I didn't feel the need to buy anything; just watching him moved me. Cholon is a reminder that this city has always been a meeting point—a place where cultures collide and blend, where a Chinese temple sits next to a Vietnamese coffee shop, and where the history of the war and the years after is written into the architecture itself.
By midday, the heat was pushing me toward shade and a cool drink. I made my way to De Tham, a street in District 1 that's always buzzing, and found a spot at a small plastic-table café. The menu was simple, but the coffee was strong. I ordered a cà phê sữa đá—iced milk coffee, the lifeblood of Saigon—and watched the world go by. The coffee here is different from what you get in the US; it's thick, dark, and sweet, a jolt of energy that somehow makes the heat bearable. It costs about twenty thousand dong, which is less than a dollar, and it's the best value in the city, if you ask me.
I was hungry, so I ducked into a nearby street vendor for a quick phở. The broth was rich with star anise and ginger, the noodles slippery and perfect. It cost me sixty thousand dong—about two and a half dollars—and it was the best meal I'd had all week. What strikes me about this city is how the food doesn't care about grand occasions. It's there for you in the morning, on a plastic stool, in the humidity, and it's exactly what you need. I ate in silence, listening to the hiss of the soup cart and the clatter of bowls, feeling something close to content.
In the afternoon, I had a meeting that felt more grown-up than any apartment tour. I went to a bank branch near District 1—specifically, the Shinhan Bank Vietnam office on Bac Saigon, which came recommended by a friend who'd moved here last year. Opening a bank account is one of those bureaucratic tasks that can either be smooth or a headache. The staff were patient, walking me through the paperwork, asking for my passport and visa, and explaining the options. I can't give you the exact requirements because they change, but here's the gist: you need a valid visa, a passport with at least six months left, and sometimes a local address. A bit of a hassle, I'll admit, but the teller was friendly, and within an hour, I had a shiny new debit card that made all the paperwork feel worthwhile.
That evening, I treated myself to a proper dinner at A Taste Of Saigon - Old Market, a restaurant that's tucked near the bustling Ben Thanh area. The place is known for its Vietnamese cuisine, including a delicate vegetarian set that had me questioning why I ever thought I needed meat. I had a crispy pancake, bánh xèo, and a plate of morning glory with garlic, and I washed it down with a fresh coconut. The meal cost about one hundred fifty thousand dong, which is maybe six dollars, and it reminded me why I'm doing this. The city is full of these small moments—a table, a dish, a conversation with a server who laughs at your attempts to pronounce the menu.
After dinner, I walked back through the streets, letting the evening air cool my skin. The rain was threatening to start, but it held off, as if giving me one last chance to see the city bathed in the gold of the setting sun. I passed a group of women in áo dài, the flowing tunic that is both formal and fluid, and I thought about how this country holds onto its traditions while sprinting into the future. I stopped at a corner where a man was selling roasted corn from a charcoal cart, and I bought one, the husk burning my fingers just enough to be real.
I've been in Saigon for four days now, and I'm beginning to see the shape of things. The monsoon sets the pace: mornings for errands, afternoons for shelter, evenings for life. The costs are manageable if you're smart—a metro ride from Ben Thanh to Suoi Tien will set you back maybe twenty thousand dong, and a monthly pass is around three hundred thousand. Rent will be my biggest expense, but I'm willing to pay a bit more for a balcony in Binh Thanh. It's not just about the space; it's about having a place to watch the rain fall and feel like you're part of it.
As I head back to my temporary home, I think about the coming months. In a few weeks, when the monsoon starts to ease, I'll head south into the Mekong Delta. I want to follow the rivers, see the floating markets, and learn how the water shapes everything it touches. I've been reading about how the delta is the country's rice bowl, how the seasons there are measured by the river's rise and fall, and I feel a pull to move with that rhythm. For now, though, I'm still in the city, still figuring out which alley to call home. The journey is just beginning, and every step—every flat, every bowl of soup, every bank form—is a thread in the story I'm weaving.
Tonight, I'm sitting on the rooftop of a friend's apartment, listening to the cicadas and the distant rumble of thunder. The rain is coming, I can feel it in the air, but I'm not rushing indoors. For the first time since I landed, I'm not in a hurry. I'm learning that this city teaches you patience—you can't beat the rain, you can only dance with it. Tomorrow, I'll look at more apartments, maybe sign a lease, and finally start making this place mine. And someday soon, I'll tell you about the day I woke up in Saigon and didn't feel like a stranger. But that day isn't today. Today, I just wanted to share the sound of the city and the taste of its food, and hope you can feel a little of what I'm feeling. Xin chào, and goodnight.
Before I go, one more thing: if you're thinking about moving here, start with the little things. Get a local sim, learn a few phrases, and find a coffee shop that feels like yours. It's not about the big landmarks; it's about the rhythm of daily life. And when the rain comes, don't hide from it. Stand in it, feel it on your skin, and know that you're in a place that's alive. That's what I'm learning, one afternoon at a time.
I'll be back tomorrow with more stories from this crazy, wonderful city. Until then, this is Linh, from Ho Chi Minh City, wishing you a good night and a good cup of coffee.