Don't lower your expectations after all

As it turns out, the New York Post doesn’t have a problem with us talking about our fieldwork. The main rules are pretty standard: Don’t talk about stories and private conversations, and don’t get too personal. Seems simple enough.

The other interns — Kevin and Jaclyn — and I got up at the crack of dawn, ate as much breakfast as we could get in our mouths between yawns, and headed to the Pepsi Center via cab around 9 a.m.

It took all of 2 minutes to get through security, since things were pretty dead. Keep in mind, the media party was last night, and a good chunk of the press crowd was still, you know, recovering, I’d imagine. Once we got to our pavilion, we sat down and waited for our supervisor, Annie, who we’d agreed to meet between 9 and 10.

[Insert six-hour, vacuous gap here.]

It was nearly 4 p.m. by the time Annie made it through security, where the wait in line had exploded from our 2 minutes to somewhere more in the 2-hour ballpark. We found out later that, while we were sitting around getting cabin fever in our press lot, a crew of nonviolent but über-disruptive protestors (Recreate ’68?) had gathered outside the security entrance, shutting down traffic and seriously delaying folks who were trying to get inside.

Though the nonviolent protest confirmed the hunch I gleaned yesterday — that these so-called anarchists are here to make political statements rather than headlines for inciting police brutality — those guys single-handedly made three New York Post interns start to question their collective sanity.

We waited, and waited, and waited, and when we were done waiting, we waited some more. Annie’s an extremely busy woman, so we stayed put, well aware that she needed us at the press lot to take care of phone connections, internet hookups and to greet assorted visitors who’d occasionally drop by looking to exchange pins. (Here, state/news outlet/miscellaneous pins are a little like currency — you can trade ‘em for anything from another pin to private party access.)

We sat on the blue suede couches in our press lot’s makeshift lounge, bonding while we wondered aloud how much longer we’d be sitting around getting fieldwork credit for doing nothing.

By 11 or so, we started getting slap-happy. I devised a theory: Rupert Murdoch got bored this morning and decided it’d be fun to watch three interns slowly go insane, so he stuck us in an all-but-empty, isolated press lot all by ourselves with no idea how to answer simple questions like “Where’s Annie?” and “How many speech texts do you need?”

I envisioned Murdoch watching live feed from a secret camera in the press lot, drumming his fingers together slowly and laughing maniacally.

We started playing tic-tac-toe in the suede, rubbing lines and X’s and O’s into the fabric. I wandered around the press lot, strategically contorting my body while holding my laptop in an effort to somehow get hold of a wireless Internet connection. We ate candy, attempted to nap, and, when we were feeling really naughty, got up to get a drink from the vending machine or use the bathroom. But nothing, nothing, could cure the boredom.

It didn’t matter. The three of us were so happy to be at the heart of the convention, surrounded by reporters we’ve idolized since we were old enough to understand the whole “media” thing, no amount of boredom, however prolonged and paralyzing, could really get us down.

Once Annie arrived, things rocketed uphill fast. Apart from a 1/3-mile stint schlepping relatively light boxes from a major intersection, through security to the press lot, the rest of the day was wonderful.

We met the Post’s political editor and a cluster of reporters. Later, when I was walking with Kevin to deliver a press pass to one of the staffers, I walked right past an incredibly familiar looking man with thinning strawberry-blonde hair and dignified, handsome face. I couldn’t for the life of me remember who he was, but I knew he looked familiar, so I flashed a painfully awkward smile. Looking rather thrilled to be recognized, he returned the favor.

“That’s Paul Begala!” Kevin whispered.
“Who?”

About 30 minutes later, when I saw the same man on television I realized who Paul Begala was: a CNN pundit and former Bill Clinton advisor with a sassy sense of humor. Actually, he’s one of my favorite CNN pundits…but apparently, I can’t recognize the man out of context. Nice one, Rebecca.

After cheerfully going about a few more hours of less-than-glamorous intern work, Annie offered to treat Kevin, Jaclyn and I to dinner. Won’t say too much about what happened there because frankly, the dinner conversation was too hilarious to really capture in writing. But the main highlight? Annie said we’re some of the best interns she’s had, and she’s working on getting the three of us some kind of article(s) to work on.

I guess the The Washington Center’s mantra, “Lower your expectations,” is working out. I’d set mine so low, I didn’t realize that lugging office supplies around with a smile on my face (because, hell, I’m happy to be there!) could get me a byline in the oldest continuously printed paper in the nation.

It was a good day.

And I got a hundred bucks ☺.