Four years ago, standing in the kitchen of my childhood home, I leaned against the countertop toward my mother and
anxiously explained why I wanted to be a features writer. I wanted to write about
culture, science, human rights issues, history, international health, archaeological
discoveries, global climate. "Things that matter," I said, brows furrowed as I
spoke through a mouthful of Oreos. Mom and I always could polish off a sleeve
of cookies when we got to chatting.
Back then, landing a job at a magazine
seemed so very, very far away. A castle in the air.
Yet here I am. Three weeks into
my internship for Smithsonian magazine and living my life (loving my life) in the heart
of Washington, D.C., just a few blocks from the White House. To be fair, I think "City of Interns," or perhaps "City of Sweaty Interns," would be a
more accurate name during these summer months. Today's heat index is supposed to reach 110 degrees Fahrenheit.
Within
the last week, I’ve attended two press previews for museum exhibit openings,
pulling out the most interesting angles of the exhibitions and authoring blog
posts for Smithsonian.com. One of these posts covered the opening of an Amelia Earhart exhibit, timed to coincide with the 75th anniversary of her
disappearance. This is something I’m proud of. (“This matters!” said my inner monologue.)
I also conducted a tongue-in-cheek interview with a curator from the Smithsonian Museum of American
History, asking how past U.S. presidents might have hypothetically battled
zombies, vampires and Sasquatch. It was an incredibly fun way to write about historical figures and I’m spoiled to be so young yet in a
position where I can write such a story.
In addition, I’ve been doing fact checking and research, coordinating
communications with our writers’ agents and publicists, writing captions for
the print magazine and the iPad edition, writing profiles on Olympic athletes
and authoring a 200-word piece for a special issue of the print magazine. It
never fails to amaze me how much more difficult it is to write a short piece
than a long piece. Adjectives become pawns that I eagerly sacrifice to satisfy
the allotted word count, and each “the” and “that” is scrutinized while my
finger twitches over the DELETE key.
Evenings
and weekends I spend weaving myself into the cloth of this city. Living in D.C.
is surprisingly becoming what feels like a perfect fit, an exciting development for a girl who
has always felt slightly out of place in Manhattan and placidly content in
Boston.
My first weekend here, I
attended a rooftop dinner party in Chinatown. I was momentarily confused as to why the dinner table was
covered in brown packing paper, but then the party hosts overturned massive
bins of bright red, baked Maryland crabs. With lemony juices running down to
my elbows, I cracked and slurped my way through my first Maryland crab, washing back the
salty taste of sea water and Old Bay Seasoning with a cold beer. In
the background, the city skyline was book-ended by the Washington Monument and
the Capitol building, illuminated bright white and austere at each end of the
National Mall.
A few weeks have passed and
already I am feeling very much at home here. It’s a young city, filled with
motivated 20-somethings who are easy to strike up conversation with. There is a
tangible buzz in the air, strengthened by the influx of eager interns and the
political backdrop set by the upcoming election. I relish the independence that
comes from being able to get anywhere I want to go with my own two feet and a
metro card. I tend to leave the tourist destinations to the tourists – my
explorations and adventures seek out the local hot spots, where I try to keep
the giddy, love-struck smile off my face just long enough to perhaps look like a Washingtonian.
— Kat J. McAlpine, Editorial Intern, Smithsonian magazine
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