Hang Gai Street

Rope made of gai fiber feels coarse and rough against the palm. Silk feels cool and soft to the touch, like water. The two could hardly be more different. Yet both have passed, one after the other, through the same short street beside Hoan Kiem Lake. And to this day the street carries the name of that rough fiber: Hàng Gai.

The street is about 250 meters long, an easy stroll from end to end. It begins at Hàng Đào Street, right beside Đông Kinh Nghĩa Thục Square by the lake. A breeze drifts over from the water, from the direction of Lê Thái Tổ Street. The street runs west and crosses Lương Văn Can Street. It reaches the crossroads of Hàng Hòm and Hàng Trống. Then it carries on into Hàng Bông Street. Long ago, it was one stretch of the road from the lakeshore to Cửa Nam, the South Gate. Short as it is, Hàng Gai is a gateway. It leads people from the lake deep into the heart of the Old Quarter.

The land under the street once belonged to two wards. The eastern half was the ward of Đông Hà, and the western half was the ward of Cổ Vũ. Both lay in the canton of Tiền Túc, in the district of Thọ Xương, part of the old capital. Each ward had a communal house of its own. The Đông Hà communal house once honored Quý Minh. Legend says he was a younger brother of Sơn Tinh, the god of Mount Tản. The communal house of the second ward once honored Bạch Mã and Linh Lang.

The name of the street states its old trade plainly. Gai is a fiber plant, and the goods laid out here were cord of gai and jute, hammocks and rope. In those days the small stalls were piled high with coils of rope, bundles of cord and hammocks. Wherever a buyer's hand touched, it met something rough. So much rope was sold here that people also called the place by a plainer name: Hàng Thừng, the rope street.

In the 19th century, a new smell spread through the street: printing ink. The trade of printing and selling books came to Hàng Gai. Little by little, the rope sellers moved away, to the ward of Đông Thành and to Bát Đàn Street. Woodblock carvers from the village of Liễu Tràng, in the old Hải Dương region, came here and opened workshops. Along the street rose houses that stored carved wooden printing blocks, much like the publishing houses of the day. Quán Văn Đường was one such name, and it stayed in business until the end of the 19th century. The row of buildings on the inner side of the Cổ Vũ communal house was once a large printing works.

Making a page of a book in those days was work for the hands. Workers copied out the characters and carved them onto a wooden block. They brushed ink across the face of the block, laid a sheet of paper on it, and rubbed it evenly until the strokes appeared. Each sheet, folded in half, matched one carved block. From these blocks came Truyện Kiều. It is a long poem widely regarded as the most significant work of Vietnamese literature. Phan Trần and Nữ tú tài came from them too, along with the Four Books and the Five Classics, the old texts of Confucian learning. One by one, these books left the street for their readers. Some lines of Kiều that grandparents still know by heart today may have been printed from a block on this small street.

The first stretch of the street, from Hàng Đào to Tố Tịch, had a different trade. Wood turners from the village of Nhị Khê, in old Thường Tín, came here and opened shops. So this stretch had a name of its own: Hàng Tiện, the street of the wood turners. At first the lathes were driven by pedaling feet. Only much later did electric machines arrive. Under the cutting blade, a spinning piece of wood became trays, incense holders, round tables, stands for wine cups and window bars. A hand laid on a freshly turned wooden tray finds it smooth, nothing like the rough gai rope of years before.

Under French rule, the street had a French name, Rue du Chanvre, which means Hemp Street. For a time, house number 80 served as the office of the French Resident. House number 79 was the office of the Viceroy of Bắc Kỳ, the name then used for northern Vietnam. Then quốc ngữ spread widely. It is the Vietnamese script written in Latin letters. As it spread, new printing houses gradually took the place of the carved wooden blocks. Among them were the Đông Kinh press at number 82 and the Ngô Tử Hạ press. Traders also opened general stores, hat shops and eyeglass shops. In 1945 the street took back its Vietnamese name, Hàng Gai, and has kept it ever since.

The street also had a seasonal joy. In the past, whenever the Mid-Autumn Festival drew near, Hàng Gai sold folding lanterns, revolving lanterns and traditional toys. On a street that once sold rope and printed books, the revolving lanterns turned round and round. Their shadow figures ran across the paper walls, on and on without end.

In the 1980s, the street changed its trade once more. Embroidery, lace and silk began to appear, and there was more and more of it. Silk clothes, silk scarves and hand embroidery came pouring in from craft villages. Some came from La Khê and La Cả. Others came from Quất Động and Vạn Phúc. More came from Bưởi and the village of Mỗ. Not a trace of the gai plant remains. The street named for the roughest fiber has become a street of silk.

Vạn Phúc silk is brought in from Hà Đông and laid out in the shops along the street. It is as if a silk thread runs from the village to the street. At one end is the loom in the silk village, where a weaver makes the cloth. At the other end is a shop window on Hàng Gai, where that silk first meets the person who will wear it.

Today the street is lined with áo dài in traditional and modern styles. There are embroidered bags, small purses of every kind, and countless silk scarves in many colors, stacked in layers. Visitors from across the country and from far away drop in. In every shop there is quiet talk between buyer and seller. Lamps shine down on the bolts of silk, and the cloth glows softly.

Someone stands for a long time before a glass case, then gently reaches out to touch the edge of a scarf. The silk is cool and soft, slipping between the fingers like water. Yet on this street, many hands once touched very different things. There was rough gai rope. There were carved blocks soaked in ink, and wooden trays fresh from the lathe, still smelling of wood. Centuries of trades lie layered in one short street, only a few hundred steps from end to end.

And the soft silk of today still lies on a street that bears the name of a strand of gai.