"Well, you made it" someone says to me as I order another fresh squeezed lemonade (40 cents) and ponder the timing of my next tennis lesson (90 cents). I'm finally a member of the most exclusive Club in town- the American Recreation Association. This relative oasis that seems light years away from the smog, noise, and poverty of Dhaka is complete with three restaurants, a pool, playgrounds, a bar, a gym (to work off the bar) tennis courts, and grass. Yes- in Dhaka, grass makes the list of envious amenities. 

 

But it wasn't easy. The road to the pinnacle of Bangladeshi society isn't an easy one- especially for Americans. You see, due to the fact that Dhaka offered no services to expatriates, individual countries started setting up their own "clubs" so that their citizens could have safe food and a quiet place to relax. After six weeks here, I wanted that- nay- I needed that.

Rewind: February 1st, 2011: 

There are so many of these country club-esque places that sometimes you think you're at Epcot. In addition to the American Club, there's a Canadian Club, a Nordic Club (which caters to Swedes, Danes, Finns, Icelanders, and Norwegians), a German Club, a Dutch Club, two British Clubs (snobby tossers), an Australian Club, a Thai Club, an International Club (for anyone without a club of their own) and the Gulshan Club (for Bangladeshis). At any of these places, a person with a passport of their respective country may sign up and pay a nominal membership fee to enjoy all the comforts of home. 

Not so for the Americans. You see, with great Club comes great pain-in-the-ass. The upside of the American Club is that once a member, you are automatically granted membership to all the other clubs as well. However, in order to become a member, you must have a "diplomatic sponsorship" -a letter from an American diplomat saying you're not an axe murderer or a pedophile or Michelle Bachmann, or anything else that might ruin their little slice of utopia. In short, you must find one of 35-40 diplomats in a city of 12 million, become their friend, and in a completely not-awkward way, ask them to sign some sheet of paper. AKA, you must  s*** a diplomat's **** (figuratively speaking)(sorry mom...and grandma.) Quite understandably, I was angered. Why should the Americans be the only ones who are so difficult? After all, MY tax dollars are paying for this!

Well, I couldn't just know that such luxuries were just over that tall brick wall and behind those armed guards without having them for myself. I demanded entrance. While 'explaining' my predicament to the gatekeeper, a nice American woman invited me in as her guest. We kept in touch for via Facebook since. After several failed attempts at entering the land of milk and honey on my own, I went straight to the manager. He told me that if I could find someone who was already a member, I could become their "houseguest" and get a temporary membership of my own. Who did I run into on the street the very next afternoon? None other than the lady who let me in that first day. 

After some general sweet talking, she and her husband signed the paperwork. I am eternally grateful, for now I can travel the world! Now I can proudly walk past those armed guards, flash my membership card, and be transported back to the good old US of A for a couple of hours. (I can also get some great meatballs down the street in Sweden, or some wine across the way in Australia)

The moral of the story is that it's a waste of your time to tell me "no", because I'll probably just find a much more creative and annoying way to make you say yes :)  

I'll take another lemonade now.