Teach your children well

Things have been picking up. Recently, I got a teaching position at a local English school. Mr. Nate, the director, who runs daily lessons out of his house, keeps telling me he loves my accent. He even calls me "bro" and does the little hand shake into the fist pound (so Boulder). My first day he hands me a xeroxed packet of lessons, size 6 font, and points for me to go upstairs to his classroom. I have never done anything like this before. Do I write Mr. Alpert on the blackboard? Am I supposed to take role? One by on the students file in and take a seat. Six in total, ranging from 17-22 years old, the kids stare quizzically, as if at a long-haired zoo animal (which I guess I sorta look like). "Where are you from?", "How old are you?", "Are you married?" are some of the more common questions. Some speak so softly I have to crane into their face just to make out their words. One girl asks: "Do you practice English everyday?"; maybe she confused my daily practicing of Vietnamese, but hilarious none-the-less. The lessons prove to be a bit boring (that's school though, right?) and at the end we go into a free discussion of the American practice of Halloween. Between my chalkboard drawings of jack-o-lanterns, "mummy-walking", and countless disgraceful outlines of the United States (and thus little blobs of Arizona's), I am somehow convinced to sing a freestyle "Stand By Me", since the kids swear it's part of the lesson. Not cool guys.

I've been staying physically active, not like I sweat enough here already. The ping pong club has been a great; all you casual players better watch out back home! The Viets take this game waaaaay beyond just a backyard-BBQ hobby. I even went out the other day and got my first paddle. And now I sleep with it.

It only took me 2 weeks to get myself onto a soccer team, although from here on I must refer to the sport as football. I bike to a university early the other morning based on directions from a friend who I met at pong. Somehow I manage to find the fields he describes to me. I tell ya, this is where the stars are born. Dirt fields lined up grid style, separated by lines dugout in the ground. Swaying palms and tall grasses prove to be a beautiful contrast to the orange ground. Approaching the lot of fields, one cannot tell who's playing for who. Kids run everywhere, a yelp here and there for goals scored and headers nearly made. Some players run barefoot. Others don the jerseys and colors of their favorite Premier League teams. Yet everybody is here to kick ass. My pong buddy, Hung, sees me lurking around the ouskirts trying to look casual. He introduces me to his team, I'll call them the Red Dragons, and tells me I'm actually playing with the opposing team due to uneven substitutions. I'm releaved with the aloofness already: no ref, no shin guards, and free green tea for the subs. We play aggressively but have a good time as well. I get two goals in fact, the high scorer on my team! I even play as a very poor goalie. Regardless, I'm invited back for the next game.