There are all sorts of expat clubs. The Brits have one. And so do the Germans. The Nordics bundled themselves together and set aside differences between Danish, Finns and Swedes and formed a Nordic club. Canadians have one too, aye?
But for now, I’ll just stick with MY club, the American one. When we first arrived here, we thought we died and gone to heaven. I had never belonged to a private club before in my life. Rows upon rows of blooming flowers. Green grass in the otherwise brown and dry climate, stretching over a city of dust and rubble. Ladies in two piece swimming suites in country where they are fresh meat on the street if they do not cover themselves, even in the raging-hot summer temperatures.
The American Club: a place where an American can be an American. It has tennis courts, a gym, and a pool. And, more importantly, their menu includes hamburgers and fries, macaroni and cheese, a weekly barbecue, and seasonal pumpkin pie. Nachos, tacos, Cheetos and Doritos It does not get more American then this. And don't forget the drinks, the alcohol! In a country where alcohol was not permitted, the club has Happy Hours. And that’s right – all prices are in dollars, so you know how much money you are spending.
For my fellow Americans, the Club is a refuge in times of deepest, darkest depression – and rightly so. It is the only place to feel normal – sort of (because the mosquitoes and bad air, sadly, did not park themselves outside the Club’s door). It is the only place to serve the kind of food that is so bad for you and your health, but tastes so yummy. You might not imagine they would be so hard to come by on the mean streets of Dhaka, but of course you would be wrong.
Laying in the sun by the pool on a Saturday afternoon reading a book on my Kindle with a beer in the other hand, it suddenly made sense to me why mom's dishes tasted so good even when they were burned.
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