July 01, 2005
Striking Gold
By Mary Pilon
Lately, I’ve felt like a little old man with a gold detector.
Reporting sometimes is like being that over-60 retiree who combs the sunny beaches toting a bizarre contraption with the hope of someday finding a piece of gold which well help pay off the Winnebago. After phoning, talking, translating, thinking, reading, and researching, a reporter might land that killer interview which will prove fruitful and print-worthy. Although I’ve got age on my side and don’t own any Hawaiian print shirts, I felt kind of strange during my first day of on-the-street reporting. I’d been combing for a while, but didn’t feel like any gold was in sight.
Kate, my Russian partner, and I decided to report about an abandoned monument near the banks of the Don River. She said that she knew little about the history or future of the monument, but only that the local government owned the land.
A red light went off in my mosquito-bitten head. In a cluttered broadcast studio far, far away (New York), a kindly Romanian professor warned me that getting any type of Russian government official to comment for a story would prove a mission impossible. Not only would my American gold detector not beep, it would be shoved under the sand like an ostrich’s head.
Months later, sitting in an overheated Russian classroom, I told Kate with some reluctance, “Well, we’ll have to get a comment from City Hall…”
“Sure,” she replied with confidence. I saw a potential snag, she saw gold that was merely buried deeper.
The next day, we phoned City Hall. After two hang-ups and a lot of frustrated Russian words, Kate looked at me, “They say we’ll have to wait two to four weeks for a written response. We need to go there in person.”
Immediately, visions of KGB danced in my head. I had terrible preconceived notions about being a journalist in Russia. All over the news in America, I’d read about journalists killed here and around the world for trying to obtain information from government officials. No arrests ever made. Few questions answered.
I knew deep down that the worst-case scenario would be a “no comment” in my article. But as an amateur journalist on my maiden foreign reporting assignment, I remained frightened.
Armed with our translator, Lidia, Kate and I headed down to the Department of Architecture and City Hall to ask questions the following afternoon. On the way, we devoured Russian hot dogs (regular hot dogs with an array of tasty ruffage on top) and discussed the skyrocketing real estate market in New York and Rostov. Through the chit-chat I could only think of one thing – a door slamming in my face.
We climbed up the century-old staircase to an imposing office. A woman greets us and ushers us into her spacious, air-condition office. She pulls out a thick folder.
Before we can really introduce ourselves, she starts talking and whipping out drawings, maps, and documents – all regarding the monument.
My detector beeped like crazy.
She went on about the history and politics of it, who we could talk to for more information, when we could talk more, and how we could obtain those documents.
We listened eagerly to her plethora of information. After hearing nothing but horror stories, I was tickled about the knowledgeable and kind Director speaking to us so freely, and on such short notice.
I know that not all reporters are as lucky as we were – good translation, sources, and hot dogs – and that creating a captivating and eloquent article is no easy task. But nonetheless, I feel obligated to share this tale of how my mental driftwood transformed into our pure gold.