Shortly after arriving in DC I realized I’d made a wee mistake: I had booked a room that’s closer to the home of George and Laura Bush than conference headquarters. And so when it turned out that Collin only had 45 minutes to hang between interviews—he's on Syracuse's interview squad this year—I broke down and took a cab up to DuPont Circle. On the cab ride I wondered how all the stressed interviewees were coping with the sprawling clusters of hotels, especially the rhet/comp candidates, for whom the jobs and often the interviews are comparatively plentiful and therefore somewhat squeezed together. I’m so glad I’m not interviewing.
Collin’s hotel lobby was dotted with waiting interviewees, some talking on cell phones, others just holding their cell phones open, presumably watching the cell clock. Several people had folders open on their laps, and one guy in shiny Italian shoes seemed to be meditating. I couldn’t take the compression. I had to get out.
On a bench outside while Collin scarfed down a croissant, we confirmed with Clancy Ratliff, a PhD candidate from Minnesota who happened by, that in fact, the hotel sprawl was the biggest challenge this year. Clancy, who had a nice slate of interviews and was, I bet, performing well, was doing what I would totally do were I interviewing here, which I wasn’t: spending a ton of money on cabs.
Later on I was relieved to find that the lobby of the Marriott Wardman, the main hotel, was so much larger than the one at Collin’s hotel that the anxiety enjoyed a little more elbow room. Or maybe it was the happy hour effect. The spectacle expanded, too, to include more of the conference proper, introducing new questions such as: who is this joker squinting to read my nametag? What does one eat and drink before a 7:15 panel? (Answers: I don’t know because I can’t read his nametag; orange powder-dusted bar mix and a Perrier.)
By midnight, after our moderately well attended panel, tasty Ethiopian food, and a long metro ride back to George and Laura’s, I was feeling pretty good about my compact, non-interviewy MLA. And then I got on the elevator with four men, all in suits, all clearly part of the same interview team, as evidenced from their chortly demeanors and self impressed tones. Good, I thought, they’re so involved in recounting their prospective hires and processing their scotch-and-sodas that they won’t notice me. But the bearded guy with his tie still tucked in his shirt and a lopsided MLA nametag looked my direction, smiled, tilted his head somewhat condescendingly, and asked me: “Are you interviewing? You look like you’re interviewing.”
Apparently the soft-soled boots and the scuffed bag weren’t enough. I gotta get out of here.
