Arriving at Starbucks at 4:15am meant that by 6:30, I would usually be eating lunch quietly in an empty store. Barely a month later, I hurtle through cross-town traffic on the back of an early-eighties Honda motorbike, late for a starring appearance at a Vietnamese public school. Like many of my classmates from college, I find myself minutes from a hyperactive secondary school classroom. Teach for Saigon.

My driver guns the bike — we’re very late— and we race through the crowded surface streets dodging busses, motorbikes and street vendors. The chinstraps of his helmet flap behind him unbuckled and I think he might as well forget it altogether, when, moments later, a bucket and length of rope tumble down from a construction crew on latticework above us. I guess there are more than a few reasons to wear headgear here. Or just stay at home. My driver looks over his shoulder at me laughing and speeds up.

Last night I was nervous. Terrified, actually. Most of the night, I was awake imagining myself going blank in front of 60 screaming children, or dreaming about various ways I may die. Luckily Matt gave me a solid strategy, and, frankly, right now I’m too tired to be scared. I just hope I can stand today for longer than I slept last night.

I was told that the school I would work at was one of the nicest in Saigon. I was told that the surrounding neighborhood is very affluent and “looks like California”. From the look of it, the school I arrived at had just been shelled by mortar-fire. Half of the building lay in rubble, the rest looked envious. A deep voice barks incomprehensible orders over a PA.

In the yard, the children are silent at first, but soon a swell of delighted shouts drown the PA system. I just want to make it out alive.

Children play soccer atop the rubble.