A Yogi Walks Into a Piano School... And Accidentally Becomes the Headliner

Sometimes the path to enlightenment runs through a room full of five-year-olds practicing scales <3

December 20th, 2024

Da Nang, Vietnam

Following the joyous chaos and endless laughter of the Ha Giang Loop, my soul craved solitude to recharge. I found myself in Da Nang, that tranquil beach town gracing central Vietnam's endless coastline. My days fell into a gentle rhythm – deep sleep, teaching yoga to my online students, venturing out only to savor the quang noodles at the shoreline eateries along my street

My self-imposed isolation broke when Q appeared in Da Nang. The universe works in mysterious ways – first Seoul, then Hanoi, and now here we are, reunited again on Vietnam's central coast. While I had taken the merciful one-hour flight from Hanoi, Q endured a grueling 15-hour sleeper bus journey. He didn't hold back describing the bus's putrid atmosphere, loose scheduling, and tardiness. Yet from this ordeal came an unexpected gift: two wonderful new friends, Raza from India and Farah from Morocco, both of them bonded with Q through shared transit misery.

After three days of near-complete silence (save for video calls with my parents), I ventured to their hostel to ease back into social interaction. They were a boisterous trio – wrestling, playfully smacking each other, cracking crude jokes. I sat there like a glassy Buddha, simply smiling and enjoying their energy. Farah, this remarkable woman in her thirties, had recently divorced and left Morocco to explore the world, defying her family's judgment of her revealing Southeast Asian attire – a stark departure from North African modesty

Her response to the culture shock was fascinating – a complete 180 from her conservative upbringing. She wrestled with Q, teasing him mercilessly, shoving her feet in his face, demanding he smell them, dissolving into giggles, rolling around, and throwing back soju shots. Watching her unleashed spirit was beautiful. When she told me, "I can never hit you like I'm hitting Q. You're too sweet," I accepted it as praise, though part of me yearned to join their rough play.

I've never experienced bullying, and I'm grateful that my gentle nature tends to invite kindness. Yet I wonder if I'm missing something fundamental in male bonding through physical play. The irony wasn't lost on me – here was this woman fully embodying the masculine energy I sometimes feel I lack. But I know gender exists on a spectrum; Hindu deities are often portrayed as androgynous for good reason. Yoga teaches us about the duality of sun and moon energy, and perhaps mine simply exist in harmony.

Life ebbs and flows. Some days I lean into my masculine, others into my feminine. Sometimes I assert, sometimes surrender. Sometimes act, sometimes contemplate. But Farah – today she was pure fire. The four of us explored the Da Nang night market, ostensibly searching for snails but getting happily sidetracked by mango, octopus, squid, clams, sugarcane juice, and oysters before finally finding our intended quarry.

Farah's haggling was masterful, ruthlessly driving prices down by half. While I usually feel uncomfortable negotiating, knowing my privilege as a visitor to Vietnam, Farah was gloriously shameless. She'd playfully berate vendors until they yielded to her demands, yet somehow kept them smiling throughout. It wasn't degrading – it was a dance, a performance that had me constantly laughing in amazement.

The snails were divine, made even better by the company. Far from French escargot in garlic butter, we reveled in the bold flavors and bright colors of Southeast Asia. I'm grateful that even so far from home, I continue to learn about myself through the beautiful mirror of others and the culture surrounding me.

December 21st, 2024

Da Nang, Vietnam

Wandering through Da Nang's commercial district tonight, headphones on, I sought dinner but found something more meaningful. Among the neon-lit streets, my eyes searching for restaurants, I discovered a piano school. Through its glass facade, I watched five rows of electric keyboards – the sophisticated kind with weighted keys and built-in speakers. Young children, ages five to twelve, sat practicing their exercises, playing pieces that would never grace a karaoke bar, music that existed purely for the sake of learning.

Though I travel with a guitar despite its cumbersome weight, it's actually my tertiary instrument. Given the choice, I'd prefer a drum kit or piano, but practicality dictates otherwise. These travels have deepened my connection with the guitar, yet seeing those pianos stirred something in me. So I entered, combining shamelessness with humility, hands pressed together at my heart, head bowed. The teacher's casual nod to my request to play was all I needed.

To my surprise, she unplugged the headphones from my keyboard, letting my music fill the room. When I questioned this, she simply said, "No, it's okay." What happened next touched me deeply – all her students abandoned their benches to watch me play. Unlike their structured Suzuki method training, which emphasizes classical memorization over creativity, my musical education was different. My teacher taught me Coldplay and Ben Folds, and piano became my sanctuary.

This moment reminded me of my time teaching at PS 41 in New York, where I always believed inspiring love for an instrument matters more than technical prowess. These students seemed to sense my genuine love for the piano. Despite their teacher's gentle attempts to redirect them, they remained transfixed by my simple improvisations and chord progressions. Though their teacher likely possessed far greater technical skill, passion has its own magnetic pull. I hope they'll carry this memory with them, understanding that music is more than just perfect technique.

Later, fate led me to a restaurant where the culinary and literary unexpectedly merged. While savoring shrimp in passion fruit sauce, I discovered the original Winnie the Pooh on a nearby bookshelf. Having grown up with the animations, I'd never explored A.A. Milne's actual prose. The writing captivated me with its sophistication – clearly not just children's literature. As an adult reader, I noticed layers of meaning that would elude even teenagers.

I recalled reading online about how each character in the Hundred Acre Wood represents different psychological conditions. The book's delightfully puzzling narrative suddenly made perfect sense through this lens. How remarkable that the author addressed mental health with such sensitivity decades before it became acceptable, let alone trendy, to discuss. Few writers have managed to explore PTSD, depression, dementia, and OCD with such gentle whimsy.

Perhaps I should have felt too old to be so absorbed in Winnie the Pooh, but I couldn't help myself. Half the book vanished before I even noticed, and only after finishing my passion fruit shrimp did I finally dab my napkin and reluctantly take my leave.

<3

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