I have spent my second week in Singapore doing what every newly arrived expatriate does, though I prefer to think of it as establishing cultural coordinates. Today's expedition took me to Raffles Hotel, that gleaming monument to colonial elegance that has somehow survived both time and irony.

The approach is designed to impress. White columns, manicured palms, doormen in crisp uniforms who manage to convey both deference and judgment. I had dressed appropriately: linen trousers, a silk blouse in that particular shade of cream that photographs well in tropical light, my mother's pearls. One must respect the theatre of the thing.

The Long Bar, naturally, was where I ended up. It is required. Somerset Maugham drank here, they remind you at every turn, as though his ghosts still linger over the peanut shells scattered across the floor. I ordered a Singapore Sling (when in Rome, etc.) and watched the other pilgrims perform their rituals: photographs with the drink, photographs of the drink, photographs of each other pretending to casually enjoy the drink.

The cocktail itself is competent, though I suspect the original recipe has been focus-grouped into oblivion. Too sweet, not enough bite. But one does not come to Raffles for cutting-edge mixology. One comes for the validation of having come.

I struck up a conversation with an American couple from Connecticut. They had arrived three days prior and were working their way through what appeared to be a meticulously researched itinerary. Gardens by the Bay, check. Marina Bay Sands, check. Raffles, in progress. They asked me how long I had been here, and when I said two weeks, they treated me as a seasoned local, asking for recommendations with the earnest intensity of people who fear missing the authentic experience.

I suggested the hawker centers, because that is what one suggests. I have been to precisely one, and spent most of my time wondering about the provenance of the ice in my drink, but I described it with the confidence of someone who has fully integrated into the local fabric. They took notes.

There is something both comforting and dispiriting about Raffles. It is a pocket of the familiar, a space where the rules are known and the lingua franca is shared nostalgia for an empire that ended before any of us were born. We are all playacting, but the stage is beautifully maintained.

I left as the afternoon light turned golden, paid an obscene amount for two drinks and a small bowl of nuts, and felt absolutely no regret. Some pilgrimages are worth the price of admission, if only to confirm that you have made them. The Connecticut couple took my photograph in front of the entrance. I will never see it, but I am certain I looked appropriately at ease, a woman who belongs in such places, even if I have only just arrived.