The American Club

I am enjoying one of the pleasanter afternoons of my life. 


I am inside the confines of the elite American Club of Kathmandu. No cameras allowed. 


By US standards, the facilities aren't overly impressive, but in this underdeveloped city it feels like an oasis of sophistication. And for a girl like me with a bit of a romantic side, the rustic luxury is just right. I feel like I've stepped into an old Ingrid Bergman movie. Casablanca? 


And they have wireless. Joy!


Leah and I are camped out in an idyllic cafe, laptops, books and journals commandeering a table for four. The chairs are real rattan. The walls are hand molded brick, impressed with age and charming ornateness. The window walls open to tennis courts and swimming pool and sub-tropic gardens. Fans whir overhead.


This is not Kathmandu. This is Kathmandu for the movies, and is available for a monthly membership that neither Leah nor I deem priority. But oh my, it's heavenly to hang here and write, read, and strategize. 


We arrived this morning on invitation from the American Embassy to join a September eleventh commemorative ceremony. The event itself was a simple half hour nicety, but afforded us with the experience of such novelties as gentlemen in suits and ties, speeches in English, and (sigh) a color guard of US Marines. 


I was awed as ever as I gazed at Old Glory, hand over my heart, and heard the beloved anthem soar through the tent. 


And then the insects attacked. First the gentleman in front of us was bombarded my an evil, weevil-like creature, sending him into a dance and Leah and and me into a battle with the giggles. Next another winged monstrosity decided he liked Leah. More dancing.


Okay, so maybe this is Kathmandu.


I was in Kathmandu, surrounded by bugs and saffron robed monks, and the flag meant just that much more.




L.