Flying to Washington, D.C., to cover the peace rallies was one of
the
more illuminating instances I have spent as a journalist. While the
Emerald
did not cover my tab (too bad!), the money and the time were well
spent. In
D.C., I was only one of many journalists that packed into the press
box,
perused the masses below, and negotiated the stream of people coming
from
the Metro, buses, car and by foot. Coming first by Metro and then by
foot
was probably, on this day, the most freezing experience of my life.
Here’s a trick question: “Have you ever tried to write down a quote
from
a raging activist while wearing wool mittens?” If you answered in any
form,
you’re wrong. There is no way to write down anything in mittens, but to
take them off would equal pure hell and a wonderful little handheld
microphone would have been the best investment of my life right then.
What’s $50 when you’re colder than a polar bear newly shaved and thrown
back into the Arctic? Nothing, that’s what.
But, being that I did not own a sophisticated form of note-taking
and
being the dedicated journalist (or fool) I was that day, I removed my
mittens and let my exposed (and slowly becoming purple) fingers hold
(or
was it clench in pure pain?) my (shaking) pen. There is no way to
describe
the utter futility in trying to write down quotes when your hands will
not
move — while I knew I could be white (winter in Oregon wrecks hell on
a
California tan), never in my wildest mind did I think my skin could
take on
a phosphorous white tinge. But, it being decided that my skin could
look
that white, and my hands could be almost frozen and still scribble out
illegible letters onto the paper, the trip wasn’t totally a lost cause.
Coming back from the eight-hour march, frozen to the bone, I
attempted
to write out two articles on my experience. Though exhilarating, I have
never (and have I said this yet?) been so cold in my life. Add on some
jet
lag and you have yourself the precise and perfect environment to write
a
stimulating, yet thoughtful column that people everywhere will want to
read. If it wasn’t for some extra something in my hot cocoa that night,
I
do not know how I would have made it. Thank god for those “something
extras.”
Until next time . . . .