The FCC is where foreign correspondents, Indian freelance journalists, and diplomatic attachés talk shop and drink cheap booze. These are a wonderfully shifty and well-educated band of drifters and adventure seakers. It appears their basic goal is to party with fellow ex-pats in uncomfortable and dangerous parts of the world. At the FCC, story ideas are traded for favors and reporters for respectible newsmagazines laugh about messages to one another secretly embedded in the latest Reuter's dispatch.
How does one enter such rarified circles? I asked a sweaty freelancer if you had to be a member. "Not really," he shrugged. "Just walk through the door and act like you belong."
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