Tân Định Church, officially the Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, is one of Ho Chi Minh City’s most iconic landmarks. Located on Hai Bà Trưng Street in District 3. ⛪️ Founded in 1876 during the French colonial period. It was established by Father Donatien Éveillard.
⛪️ It features a blend of Romanesque, Gothic, and Renaissance architectural styles, highlighted by a 52.6-meter-tall bell tower. ⛪️ The church was originally painted in the yellow-and-white colors typical of French colonial buildings, it was repainted in its signature salmon-pink in 1957.
⛪️ Often called the “Pink Church,” it is the second-largest church in Ho Chi Minh City after the Notre-Dame Cathedral Basilica.
Top of a Temple35 Nguyễn Văn Tráng is one of the roughly 500 “old apartment buildings” (chung cư cũ) that define the architectural landscape of District 1.
1. Mid-Century Origins (1960s–1970s)
The building was constructed between 40 and 60 years ago, placing its origins in the era of the Republic of Vietnam (South Vietnam). At that time, Nguyễn Văn Tráng was part of a bustling residential and commercial zone near the Ben Thanh market.
• Design Philosophy: Unlike the ornate French colonial buildings, No. 35 reflects the modernist/brutalist leanings of that era—characterized by raw concrete, functional geometric lines, and open hallways designed to catch the breeze.
• The Materiality: It is noted for its “rough beauty,” featuring original đá rửa (washed stone) and traditional gạch bông (encaustic cement tiles) on the floors—materials that were once the standard for middle-class Saigonese living.
2. Post-1975 Transition
Following the events of 1975, many of these apartment buildings were reorganized. Large units were often subdivided into smaller residences to accommodate the city’s growing population. This created the “winding corridor” atmosphere you see today, where private life spills out into shared hallways with small kitchens and drying laundry.
3. The 2017 Revitalization
In 2017, the building gained a new life through the work of architect Nguyên Hạnh Nguyên.
• Preservation through Cleaning: Rather than tearing it down or covering it in modern panels, the team focused on deep-cleaning the old concrete and tiles.
• Contrast Architecture: They added glass elements to create a contrast between the “old rough” and “new smooth,” which made the building a magnet for the city’s creative community.
4. Present Day: A Creative Hub
Today, No. 35 is no longer just a residential block. It has become a vertical “hidden village” for Saigon’s youth and nomadic travelers:
• Hidden Cafes & Shops: It houses “secret” spots like Nhà Chung Cafe and the foreign language bookstore/cafe Pages of Passion.
• Nomadic Lodging: Higher floors are home to hostels and boutique stays like Onetel Saigon Panorama, offering a rooftop view of the skyline that contrasts sharply with the gritty, historical staircases.
It’s a great example of how Saigon’s history isn’t just found in museums, but in the layers of paint and concrete of the buildings where people still live, work, and drink coffee every day.
Travel Tip: If you head up to the higher floors, look for the original tile patterns; they are a direct link to the interior design trends of the 1960s Saigon middle class.
This is a building being constructed. Interesting style! I’m not sure what type of building it will be, commercial or residential, but I assume commercial. I’ll follow up on this once it’s completed, which is sooner than you think in Saigon. Political graffiti is rare in Saigon, but this one is especially poignant. A writer is equating the reunification day of Vietnam in 1975 to the state of Palestine in modern day.No one can carry as much on a motorbike than the Vietnamese. 🙇♀️ Bananas 🍌
Can you imagine driving that around the city? No problem for the Vietnamese…Turtle 🐢 Lake Roundabout before the rain 🌧️. Lotus 🪷 Monument.Sân khấu Sen Hồng (“Pink Lotus Stage”)
An outdoor performance venue sitting in the Khu B (Zone B) section of Công viên 23/9 (23 September Park) in District 1, Ho Chi Minh City. The park stretches between Lê Lai and Phạm Ngũ Lão streets, right beside the backpacker district of Bùi Viện and a short walk from Bến Thành Market. 🇻🇳Built 2013 🇻🇳Stopped operating in June 2019 and was then left empty. The shutdown was tied to a much larger plan: the city wants to redevelop the whole of 23/9 Park back into pure green space. After the park is fully rebuilt, the entire above-ground area is meant to serve its proper function as a green, water-feature park, with no exhibitions, fairs, or commercial activity permitted. It’s been 7 years, though. So, there’s no telling when this will happen.
Even red stools get to sit on blue chairs.A xích lô (pronounced roughly “sick-loh”)
A living piece of history. The cyclo was introduced to Saigon in 1939, during the French colonial period. For decades it served as a taxi, delivery vehicle, and even a family car for many residents.
“Dragon’s Eye” – a Longan fruit, a close cousin of the Lychee. Perfectly sweet.Men gathered at a café to watch the Netherlands vs. Morocco 2026 World Cup Match
22 Lý Tự Trọng in District 1 is one of the most historically significant buildings in Ho Chi Minh City, even though many people walk past it without realizing its story.
Originally known as 22 Gia Long Street, the building was constructed in the 1960s as the Pittman Apartments, a residential building that also housed offices for the U.S. government. During the Vietnam War, the upper floors were occupied by staff from the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID), while the top floor served as offices for the CIA’s deputy chief of station.
Its place in history was sealed on April 29, 1975, during Operation Frequent Wind. As North Vietnamese forces entered Saigon, an Air America helicopter landed on the rooftop elevator shaft to evacuate American personnel and selected South Vietnamese civilians.
Dutch photographer Hubert van Es captured what became one of the most famous images of the 20th century: a long line of people climbing a ladder to board the helicopter. For decades, many believed the photograph showed the roof of the U.S. Embassy—but that was incorrect. The iconic image was actually taken at 22 Gia Long Street (today’s 22 Lý Tự Trọng).
After 1975:
Gia Long Street was renamed Lý Tự Trọng Street.
The building continued as offices and commercial space.
The rooftop, once closed to the public, now hosts Sky22 Café, allowing visitors to stand on the very roof where the famous evacuation took place. The original elevator penthouse and rooftop layout are still recognizable.
Six months ago I arrived in Saigon and went straight for the condensed milk. That first cà phê sữa đá was an introduction and a seduction all at once, sweet enough to mask the fact that I had no idea what I was doing here, no real plan beyond staying a while and seeing what happened. Sugar is a good way to ease into a place. 😆
Somewhere in those six months, the sugar fell away. I couldn’t tell you the exact week it happened, only that I noticed one morning I was ordering đen đá without thinking, and it didn’t taste bitter anymore, it just tasted like the truth of the bean. That’s what daily ritual does. It stripped away what I needed at the start because I no longer need it.
I’ve built a tolerance, not just for caffeine, but for the Saigon itself, for its noise and its heat and its rhythm. Six months of the same coffee, every day, will eventually show you who you actually are when nobody’s sweetening the situation for you.
Today, on what may or may not be my last Vietnamese coffee in Saigon (I know myself well enough not to promise anything, I may wander into another one before the day ends), I found a café tucked so far down a hẻm off Lê Thị Riêng that I nearly missed the turn. That kind of discovery only happens by accident, and only near the end of a stay, when I’ve stopped looking for anything and the city decides to show me one more thing anyway, as if to say: see, there was always more here than you found.
I’m drinking a peanut butter coffee, which is not how I started this journey and not how I expected to end it, either.
And there’s an apple pastry on the counter that I keep looking at even though I never eat pastries. It’s shaped, absurdly and beautifully, like the Vietnamese flag, and I can’t stop thinking that the timing of it, national day just behind me, my own departure just ahead of me tomorrow, feels less like coincidence and more like the city tying a bow on something.
There’s an existential weight to drinking a last cup of anything. It’s never really about the coffee. It’s about what the coffee marked, the mornings that started because of it, the version of myself who showed up here in March not knowing the word “hẻm,” who now knows exactly which turn to take without looking.
Six months is long enough to stop being a visitor and start being someone who simply lives somewhere, and then to leave anyway, which is its own kind of grief, small and specific and easy to miss if I’m not paying attention.
Tomorrow I go to Cambodia. Today I sit with this cup, in this hidden place I’ll probably never find again, and let the nostalgia arrive early, since it clearly wasn’t going to wait for the actual goodbye. This isn’t a permanent farewell. Vietnamese coffee doesn’t really let you go that easily, and I suspect it’ll find me again somewhere down the road, condensed milk or not. But for now, this is it. Six months, one last cup.
