Expatriates

    Last week I was sent on an assignment to write a review of the Bangalore Expatriate Club meeting. Well, it was more of a gathering over fine drinks and western food than a "meeting." Having no idea what to expect, I stepped inside what is probably the most glamorous hotel I have ever seen. While I was riding the elevator with the bell-boy all I wished was that I could point out the irony that the parking lot next door was home to some of the poorest in Bangalore, but I thought that would be inappropriate. Instead, I silently wished someone was with me to share the moment. So I  stepped off and immediately opened my journal.

     Since I was unaware of the distance from my office, I left early and found myself to be the first person at the event. The bartender was preparing the drinks and poured me a glass of scotch as I sat in an overly decorated ballroom, the bow on the back of my seat causing a disturbance to my comfort.

     Then, Ema Trinidad, overly excited, media savvy "spa treatment guru" and club's coordinator walked briskly inside the room, flailing her arms, and caught me out of the corner of her filipino eyes.

     "OMGG TARAA! Here, get up, let's grab you a name tag so you can meet our guests more easily!" She said while pinching my arms and motioning me to the front desk with her perfectly painted pink nails. I maintained a fake smile, one that anyone who paused and stood outside of themselves for a split second would realize in an instant.

    "What had I gotten myself into...?" I wondered.

    As members of the club poured in, Ema would introduce me as "The foreign journalist writing a story on the event." And conclude with a "that means YOU!" followed by a rough pat on the back. Conversation spawned from this statement multiple times throughout the evening, and we would compete with Akon and R. Kelly blaring through the speakers, shaking the crystal chandeliers overhead.

    For those who don't know, an expatriate is someone residing temporarily or permanently in a foreign country, usually professionals sent abroad by their companies. 

    So there I found myself, walking through a cloud of four-inch stilettos in my traveler's flip-flops trying to maintain delightful conversation and picking up the purposes of stay of each member. Since I couldn't really relate to business execs on proper management in the telecom sector, I would point out the menthols in their pen-pockets, ask about their living circumstances provided by the company and regale them with tales of my own. I clearly stood out in the crowd, and it was my job- my profession- to make that stance a positive one.

    Then Ema came on the loud speaker, and thought it appropriate to introduce important attendees. Japan claimed they could make the best noodles in all of India--clearly they had already sipped on a few drinks. The crowd giggled, clapping their hands as best they could with one hand on their own glass.

    Then she introduced me, and told me to give a full-circle wave.  A spotlight that defeated my "fly on the wall" anticipations.


   So for dinner I sat with a consulate member of Switzerland and told him the story of my difficulties attaining a visa to India. Apparently, he would have rather talked to me than the psychologist to his left. A woman he arrived with looked over and said, "Oh honey, you don't need to worry about extending your Visa here."

   Not long after dinner was finished, Ema came and whispered in my ear.
   "You're invited to the exclusive after-party, I've hired a driver to take you home."

   I took the invite, and rode in the car, an Irish man belting the national anthem in the seat behind me, to a multi-million dollar mansion owned by a coffee plantation owner, who looked like he awoke from slumber to accept us in. Ema clearly has a way with words.

   Ema and the only other female riding the exclusive train took me by the elbows and sat me down poolside, wondering about my life. Thankfully their attentions only spanned the course of a minute and I was able to escape and pour myself another glass of whiskey.

     I sat by the bar, hoping to find a bit of intelligent conversation, steering clear of the obvious drunks who were making absolutely no sense in their storytelling. I found an Indian man who genuinely wished to protect me from the Europeans who were poking at my neck tattoo, lifting my feet to catch a better glimpse at the compass. I don't think I gave off the impression of feeling unsafe, just rather annoyed.

    So I sat with the Indian man and explained how I'd become my own best friend in recent years, a thought that surfaced with more clarity that evening. He nodded in understanding agreement, and told me I was well on my way to finding the key to happiness. I don't know if I believe that, but at that point in time I thought to myself, finally, a conversation stripped of technical dialogue and a boasting of success.

    As the party waned, and the women drove off with their hubbies-of-the-night, I rode home with my driver in silence through the slums bordering my quaint neighborhood. I wondered how an expatriate club, mainly of men, could rest so easily among all of this. How could their meetings only consist of fine drinks and finding their ways to parties? Why aren't they using this time to collaborate on ways in which their expertise could help curb the shortcomings of the city and country where they have been sent?

    It quickly dawned on me that it's because they spend too many hours of the day dictating native Indians without providing to them the skills necessary to move up in the field in which they're working. And they need a release from that. They need to be reminded why they left their wives and children at home; to accept their recent divorce. They need fine dining and flirting with rich, ripe women: They need to be reminded of the power they hold in the world.

     "It's the nature of the world, it's just how it works," my driver said.

     I refuse to rest at peace with that statement.