Hanoi Train Street

Right in the middle of Hanoi, a stretch of railway runs straight through two crowded residential wards. It is not a station. It is not an overpass. It is only steel rails lying between two rows of houses, less than a meter from the eaves and the window frames.

The tracks are part of the national railway and run through Phúc Xá ward and Phúc Tân ward. According to the Hanoi Moi newspaper, trains still pass through twice a day. These are not tourist trains or model trains. They are real trains of the national line. When one comes, the horn sounds from far away, the ground trembles a little, and the whole train thunders through the narrow space between the rooftops.

People have lived here for generations. They know the train times and they are used to the horn. They built their houses beside the rails long before anyone outside knew this neighborhood.

The track is a piece of the north-south railway that the French built from the end of the 19th century. The line passed through many Hanoi neighborhoods before there were fences along the whole route, as there are in modern cities. Along the rails, homes gathered over several decades. Phúc Xá and Phúc Tân are two such places, crowded, with difficult conditions, with a daily rhythm tied closely to the sound of trains.

From about 2015 to 2019, the area became famous among international visitors under an unofficial name, "Train Street." Cafes opened along the rails, and the people who came to take photos outnumbered the people who lived there. The daily life of a neighborhood suddenly became the backdrop for millions of pictures.

In 2019, the Hanoi authorities closed off the area. According to the Hanoi Moi newspaper and Nhân Dân, the reason was railway safety. The track is in use, trains pass at real speed and with real weight, and crowds gathering there created a high risk. Barriers were put up, and the cafes were ordered to close in the zone along the rails.

The rhythm of life here existed before anyone thought of taking photos. The families beside the track know the train time the way they know mealtime. Children grow up with the horn as their clock. Old people sit drinking tea at the side of the house, less than an arm span from the passing train.

On some afternoons in Phúc Xá, the light slants across the tin roofs and a horn sounds from far away, and the whole street pauses for a beat. Windows close, glasses are set down, children step back onto the pavement. Then the train rumbles past, so close that each carriage window can be seen, and disappears toward the end of the street. The street goes on living, as if nothing had happened.