It was past midnight and I couldn’t sleep. A cold wind rapped at the leaky windows, and what little heat there had been in the small fourth-floor apartment of my school had long since departed. The building was like a fortress, almost 100 years old, now empty and locked for the night. In a few hours a torrent of 650 adolescents would be roaring through the halls below. I was feeling restless and edgy. It had been my worst day. Going through my mind was what to do about the noisy and disruptive behavior in one of my classes. I was still having trouble keeping this class quiet during lessons, and my patience was weakening. I hadn’t yet figured out what I was doing wrong. I was thinking of going to the director, but what would I tell him? After six weeks I was having doubts about teaching for two years in this foreign land 3,000 miles from home. From under my covers I stared into the darkness and wondered what I had gotten myself into.