The Life of an Intern

Notes From the Cave

Today is my second day as an intern with San Diego Magazine. And there’s a reason why I didn’t write this on my first day: I was being initiated. I thought I avoided this rite of passage by opting out of all Greek life and sports at school, but therein lies the kicker — this magazine is vicious. I was assigned to fact-check the dining guide; what can only be understood as the ritualized hazing process of editorial interns.

Perhaps you’ve flipped through the 300 restaurant names and descriptions on your way to the crossword puzzle, but for us interns, a more precise glance is required. Every restaurant must be contacted and asked our myriad simple questions: “Do you still serve dinner nightly?” we prod. “Do you still accept all major credit cards?” we poke. “Do you still have a full bar?” we pester.

In the beginning it was exciting. The first restaurant I called actually had a new executive chef! I am intern; hear me roar. I put my mighty red pen to work on that entry, sat up a little straighter, and then came back down from my power trip to call the next restaurant.

They hung up me; or rather, kicked me in the knee caps.

The next restaurant put up with my questions, the next answered curtly, the next hung up on me again, and then the 30th told me all about their live music sessions on Fridays and Saturdays. But by that time, my heart had hardened, and, dare I say it — I didn’t really care.

I began to see the joke. I even chuckled a little! “Very funny, older, wiser interns,” I thought. How naive of me to think I could just walk into the cave like I was Katie Couric and blow everyone out of their cushy swivel chairs with the next award-winning article. It would take a little more conditioning than wearing those blister-causing high heels.

By the end of the day, I was pooped. I was tired of talking, tired of being nice, and really, just plain tired. I had run the marathon of all intern tasks. I had been brutally hazed — stripped of my journalistic pride and exposed for my lack of experience.

But secretly — and don’t tell anyone — I loved it.

I know it’s pathetic that I would get excited about that kind of thing, but with every number dialed I was just a little closer to joining the sisterhood of interns. Grueling as it was calling all those restaurants, rehearsing the same introduction and knowing that beyond the copy editor, very few people would actually read this section, it was my rite of passage. And here I am, on my second day, phone and restaurant guide completely out of reach and laughing the inside jokes my fellow interns and I have established.

Luckily, they spared the duct tape and public nudity for the next newbie.

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