Last night I went to the Bagha Club (one of the British ex-pat clubs) with Sam and her friends. The food was bad and the drinks cheap, which I suppose makes it very typically British. It was a nice escape nonetheless. After leaving, I went to the Westin to find a taxi, as is my new normal routine. However, this routine appears to be so normal that all the rickshaw and taxi drivers on the corner know me and where I’m going, and erupt in a chorus of Mirpur 1 when I arrive (that’s the neighborhood in which my hotel is located). And now the taxi drivers even invite me to sit in the front passenger seat rather than the back seat. I must have Ali to thank for all this, since he is clearly talking me up with his friends. I’m not sure it’s a good thing the whole corner knows who I am and where I live, but I suppose it is nice to belong.