Foreigners’ clubs in Asian cities are the only benign vestiges of the

colonial tradition that I can think of. They are the same in Hong Kong,

Tokyo, Seoul; they are comforting in their familiarity, seductive in the

promise of the same Sunday curry, fusty tennis attire rules and timeless

dedication to things no one really likes, regardless of location.

British and American clubs offer slightly different variations on bland

nostalgia: the former usually has a damp library of Enid Blyton where

the latter stacks Michael Crichton and Dick Francis. Baked beans on

toast vs. potato salad, little things; they are inevitably staffed by a team of

harried locals but managed by a pig-pink Western man in a white polo shirt

who has made a career out of his nationality.

In Hong Kong my fambly belonged to the Ladies Recreation Club, ostensibly

British but never foreign to me. I think expatriates learn quickly how to recognize

and adopt the creature comforts of others stranded in the same situation,

choosing the message of a club over its particulars: we do not want to be here.

Go home, go home