But then you get there, and all illusions of being able to talk to that editor are dashed. Dashed because you are in one of the city's oldest, most beautiful buildings, surrounded by people in priceless couture or amazing street style. And you won't know what to say. Three hundred people, decked out in Louis and Louboutin, will surround you, and you, in your Zara jeans and shoes from Topshop, your standard-issue cotton/linen blazer and strip mall-caliber accessories, will be unable to do anything.
Anything, that is, but gush when you bump into your favorite celebrity stylist. Anything but fawn over the oh-so-stylish wife of one of the men who revolutionized the industry you want to write about. Anything but try not to squeal with envy when you count not one, not two, but three candy-colored crocodile Birkins in the rows ahead of you.
Then you'll notice the gift bags. You didn't think you'd be getting anything other than a few sips of Pellegrino from the reception area, but there's one there - it's in your seat, waiting for you to open it up and delve inside. There's a copy of the magazine that shares a floor with yours in there - and is that a discount card for that awesome store you pass on the way back from work every day?
And it hits you: You've stepped into your dream. The people in the great seats (two rows from the stage!) next to and in front of you were probably in your seat this side of ten or 15 years ago.
You'll see what you want your future to look like. And you'll be speechless.
And then your editor, who knows the effect all of this is having on you, will smile and remind you that you're both there to work, not to play. And she'll nudge you in the direction of an honoree to get a quote or two for your magazine's Web site.
And you'll go straight back to work. Because that's what a good intern does.
Have a good night, interns! More tomorrow.
- Trade Intern