Chewed up, spat out at last

Okay. The CELTA course is behind me now and it's the part of the cartoon where Tom the Cat pops out of the pretzel machine shaped like a pretzel. After a few seconds, Tom shakes himself back into his normal shape, but in my case, the pretzel shape might well be permanent.

I can tell you right now I cared less for my CELTA experience than Tom did the pretzel machine. And it's not because the course wasn't worthwhile. The trainers were, I would say, more than competent and the course contained a lot of wise and useful information. This information was presented in an engaging and memorable way and our teaching practice was invaluable (i.e., really valuable).

The problem for me was this: About a 10-week supply of CELTA was piled up on our plates and we were made to start eating. If we paused to ask a question, we were told to shut up and keep eating. When we got full and tried to ease away from the table we were shoved back in front of our plates and shown no mercy. By the third week, the CELTA was being shoved down our throats with broomsticks. At least, that's how I experienced it.

Other people have made similar complaints about CELTA. Most people make it through somehow, but many people exhibit some degree of personality disintegration before the end and a few have experienced outright nervous collapses. In the fourth week, I was on the verge of a total meltdown and only the solicitous support of two kind colleagues saved my bacon.

For those of you who are teachers, or otherwise curious about the CELTA course, I'll go into greater detail offline. For everybody else, let me just say how thankful I am it's over and tell you what else has been going on here in Hanoi.

Gordon is fine. I see him rarely, but he leaves a gecko turd on the edge of my bathtub every morning. If he can do this, I don't see why he can't use the edge of the toilet, but I guess I should just be glad he uses the correct room. Gordon Heavyfoot continues to dine on the frosted glass every evening. One late afternoon when I stepped out on the terrace to see which neighbor was playing the Abba album, I thought I felt Gordon brush against my bare foot and scurry behind a potted plant. It turned out not to be Gordon, but a three-inch beetle, maybe some kind of cockroach. I told him he could stay if he eats the ants.

My latest indulgence is Café 129, just up the street from my hotel at 129 Mai Hac De. (Many cafés around here are named for their address. You'll find Café 141 sandwiched between Café 137 and Café 145.) Café 129 specializes in dishes like huevos rancheros, breakfast burritos, and Mexican hash browns, served with espresso, mango milkshake, or gin and tonic. As far as I can tell, nobody connected with the café has ever been to Mexico, and the service is incredibly slow, and there are only six tiny tables usually jammed with ex-pats before you arrive. But sometimes I just want the comfortable familiarity of guacamole. And the baguettes there are the flakiest I've had in Hanoi so far.