If walls could talk, the tales whispered through the rooms of the Foreign Correspondents’ Club in Hong Kong would hold me in thrall.
The club is a throwback to another time in our profession. It welcomes you like a comfortable hug after assignments that left you rattled. It fits like a favorite pair of blue jeans worn butter-smooth with wear, and where scuffed reporter shoes, wrinkled jackets and unkempt hair define ‘business casual.’ The dark wood tables are chipped with use, the tile floors even more so. Chair seats shine from thousands of backsides slumped in exhaustion or leaned forward to catch a news tip. Placemats are plain paper, wine glasses sturdy enough to be jostled and slammed during a heated conversation, food more filling than fine. And oh, the “long bar” in the main room! It winds around in a grand oval, with brass rails to rest your heel and a soft, leather bumper strip to rest your elbows as you lean back and scan the room, always wondering Who’s been here and what did they know?
I suppose every profession has a signature look — a style or place that fits its personality. Old press clubs are mine, as surely as are newsrooms cluttered with half-empty coffee cups and greasy pizza boxes on election night. Such clubs are growing as rare as the clack of typewriters and the pre-dawn thunk of newspapers on porches. So I beamed when I heard we had dinner reservations at one of the most venerable during my recent work trip to Hong Kong. I whooped when our host warned that it was “a bit shabby.”
Yeah, well, so am I.
I had visited 20 years before, when I was in Hong Kong on the way to mainland China for a teaching trip through the Missouri School of Journalism. As I sipped wine with my colleagues, I imagined the war correspondents of yesteryear wandering in, clutching their battered typewriter cases and shrugging off their battered emotions. I squinted in my mind to see William Holden from “Love is a Many Splendored Thing.” Then I imagined Martha Gelhorn in a far corner. I had grown up wanting to be one of them, got far enough — but not all the way — and now raise a glass of honor to the many, many women who report from the front lines of war zones. I can never be sure if I would have had their daring.
This return visit held less romance than the first, perhaps because life has knocked the gauziest edges of romance off over the years. I also was a little miffed that a journalistic colleague and I were not allowed past the dim little lobby until our member-host arrived. “Can’t we just wait in the bar?” I asked. My question was met with a dismissive scowl. And I no longer carry a press pass — another icon of an earlier age.
But once in, the place hadn’t lost its shabby allure. I was surprised by the number of people who crowded in the night we were there, and even more surprised when I was told it was a smaller-than-usual crowd. Ever curious, I asked about the membership. Maybe the industry contraction we suffer in the U.S. and Europe hadn’t reached Hong Kong. Maybe press crackdowns in mainland China had sent many correspondents to the relative and fragile freedoms of Hong Kong.
What I learned:
The club now allows journalists, public relations professionals and lawyers. (Flaks. And lawyers! At least that explained the good haircuts and good suits.) Then I asked why people still join the club. I was told it’s become a venue for a range of practical events: Lawyers hold workshops on press laws, especially Xi Xinping’s new interpretations of Article 23; PR folks network for connections and offer media training; media execs confer; reporters meet sources for lunch and story negotiations.
That’s when I noticed the woman sitting solo at the next table. Her blond hair was sleeked back in a clip; her blue dress was the simply kind of class. I turned to give her a nod and she surprised me by leaning forward with a sly smile: “Interesting people. Cheapest drinks in town. And generous pours.”
And there it was: Journalism in a nutshell, both romance and reality.
