Lessons of an internship, 10 years later

I had a lot of memories triggered this morning by a New York Times article about the invention of the Reuben sandwich. I remember the phone conversation with my mother, 10 years ago, fairly clearly. I was in my Chicago suburban college apartment -- where I lived in a curtained-off area of the living room. She was at home in rural Pennsylvania. I was ecstatic, having pulled off a remarkable feat: From the annual wave of newspaper internship rejections I typically received, I’d pulled an acceptance letter. For the summer after my junior year of college, I had a real, live, paid gig -- and one for which I needed a car.  “But you don’t have a car,” Mom said, obviously perplexed.  “I know,” I said. “So what will you do?” she asked. “I’ll rent one, I suppose.” A ferocious debate ensued, filled with advice on not blowing all of one’s earnings on the experience itself and soapbox speeches about the importance of experience to getting a real job one day. But I was sold. There was never any doubt in mind that I was going. Such was the importance of getting -- and, more so, completing -- an internship in college -- an all-important, all-inclusive experience for most reporters in continuing our learning outside the classroom. And I learned a ton at The Morning Call. Luckily, I ended up not needing to rent a car, as my grandfather loaned me his old one -- a 1986 Buick Regal that smelled of cigarette smoke even with all the windows rolled down. It wasn’t exactly a hot rod, but it allowed me to spend my meager earnings that summer on other items: my first-ever gym membership (I think it was $90 for the whole summer at the YMCA), gas (then still less than $2.00/gal) and rent ($200 a month for a room in a huge old house with a wonderful couple who lived 30 minutes from the office). Needless to say, I didn’t have a ton of money left over -- but I made an exception for spending it on lunch one day when my editor, Jack Tobias, an assistant metro editor legendary to interns from Northwestern University’s journalism school, suggested I try the Reuben sandwich at the DogStar Cafe down the street. Jack, it turns out, was not just a great editor -- he also knew good food. I’d grown up in a tiny town and hadn’t eaten a lot of fancy deli sandwiches at that point in my life. Sure, I had three years of college behind me -- but I’d been fairly preoccupied with the more exotic Thai, Indian and deep dish pizza available to me in Evanston. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to think about the Reuben. What a clash of tastes! Sour, tangy, creamy, salty. It was probably also my first experience with rye bread -- now a favorite but then an unknown to me. I remember sitting alone and feeling slightly awkward about ordering such an extravagant meal for one. (And also feeling a little proud that, as an apparently bona fide adult, I could.) It was way too much to experience on a lunch break. Mostly, though, I remember that I could barely finish the sandwich -- and that, combined with a real-world price tag up against an intern’s salary, made it my last, I believe, for the summer. It was back to packed lunches -- PB&Js, grapes and chips -- for me. I’ve rarely had a Reuben sandwich since that summer. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I ordered one. But with all these memories, I’d place a good bet on my ordering one later today. --- SIDENOTE: I haven’t spoken with Jack in years -- in fact, probably not since my internship -- but I found him on LinkedIn today and sent him a request to connect.