The FCC and my First Week

The view from the FCC

The Foreign Correspondents Club was named as such during the war years because of its popularity with the journalists. With its prominent location on the Riverside along the Tonle Sap, the FCC is a restaurant and watering hole still extremely popular among tourists and expatriates. The restaurant seating shares a space with an expansive veranda replete with the bar, a balcony lined with stools, arts and crafts style lounge chairs and a pool table. Although under cover the entire restaurant is essentially outdoors so the view, the street-sounds and the continuous breeze make the FCC the perfect spot to spend my first Friday after school.

Seating at the FCC

One week down and six to go. My first week was full of many fairly predictable things: meeting the students, getting used to the routines and responsibilities, and delivering the curriculum. On the first count, I can honestly say, the kids are wonderful. They are kind and considerate, and I am impressed by their level of performance. Almost every child speaks more than one language. They are well-spoken, and they are excellent writers. The routines are not at all what I'm used to. Attendance is reported electronically. Daily announcements are delivered via email (and read to the students). For various reasons including the lack of necessity, there are very few duties: no hall duty (no halls); no lunch duty (no need). I have "gate duty" on Monday mornings. When I asked what my responsibilities were, the principal said, "Greet the students." (I've had the sneaking suspicion that my post-retirement destiny was to become a WalMart greeter, so this seems like excellent training.)

That brings me to the reason I'm here: delivering the curriculum. I'll be the first to admit that I was a little rusty at first, but it didn't take me long to get in the swing. I have enjoyed preparing supplemental materials and planning the lessons. Some lessons went well and some were great learning experiences--for me.

On the Riverside at night

One day in class a boy named Nitor raised his hand. I called on him and he asked, "Are you going to be our teacher next year?" "No," I told him, "not unless you can convince a couple of kids in Raleigh North Carolina to move here." As if on cue, at that very moment the principal walked into the room. "Nitor," I told him, "Ask Mr. Canavan what you just asked me." Nitor hesitated a brief second looking for a way to rephrase the question.

Finally he said, "Mr. Canavan, can we keep him?"