Friday, westbound, bit by bit. The Metro, the bus to Dulles then, some interminable time after the vapid cheerful announcements-for-our-safety blared over humorless lines of travelers, laptops out, shoes in hand, I’ll be airborne again.
DC’s been okay to me, but I’m ready to go home. All honesty? I was done yesterday.
Wasn’t as bad as I’d made it sound, of course – you know how I tend to psyche myself out. Tuesday night at the reception, The Suit and I did just fine. Was charming as all hell, I’m sure, but talked way too much, as usual. At least I did – The Suit just followed along and tried to fit in.
Ended up at a Mexican restaurant with ICFJ staffers Vjollca, Patrick and Hans, drinking and swapping tales of life on the road. Note to self on playing oh-yeah-well-listen-to-this with international journalists: it’s a losing game, but it’s a hellaciously fun losing game. Yes, I had my share of stories, but wow – the tales I heard from “back when”. What it was like being a Albanian student studying journalism abroad – in Beijing. Or a German journalist masquerading as tour group translator in Albania (you’ll notice a theme here), learning bit-by-bit who all the putative “tourists” in his group really were. Have you ever imagined that such people existed? I know some you can talk to.
Yesterday? Mostly a blur – I know I talked with a lot of people. Spent time on the phone discussing the implications of penguin poop for satellite imagery. I kid you not.
Which brings me to now. Westbound on the 5A to Dulles. Next dispatch, from the Left Coast, I can pretty much guarantee it.
David Pablo Cohn 