For my last class with the teenagers I had three girls and one younger brother, who drew pictures on graph paper for an hour and a half while the rest of us did a lesson based around an episode of Blackadder Goes Forth.
The official end-of-the-year party was scheduled for midway through the afternoon. After an Oscar-length series of speeches (“They'll be thanking God next,” muttered the Spanish teacher standing next to me) during which the native speakers were called out one-by-one to receive booze, chocolates and a yellow rose, the food and wine were finally opened, the Russian women pretended they weren't really all that hungry after all and the British men loaded their plates as if it was an all-you-can-eat buffet with a twenty-minute cut off.
“No topics today,” asked my final adult class, four hours and one or two glasses of wine later. “Let's talk about life. Where are you going next?”
Good question, I thought to myself.