Cup of coffee in hand, I follow the strains of Paganini coming from the opera house. Nguyen Hue, the broad boulevard I’m on, stretches from City Hall, an opulent French-style building, on one end to a high-end shopping street reminiscent of the Champs-Élysées on the other. I could be in any European capital right now, I muse. Just then, the traffic light turns green and it begins to rain. Conical bamboo hats suddenly appear on the heads of two-wheeler riders, who engulf the boulevard like a fume-ridden wave of locusts. The resemblance to Western cities fades and Ho Chi Minh