The Worst Thing About Journalism

The worst thing about journalism is doorstepping. Hands down.

I'm sitting outside the Agriculture Ministry on Paseo Colón, doorstepping an emergency meeting because of the drought that's affecting all the country's crops. It's blisteringly hot, I haven't had lunch and the nearest shop is at least 10 minutes' walk away - and I can't walk off to find food and water in case I miss the important ministers when (if) they come out to speak to the press.

I got the last-minute call an hour or so before lunch time. I'd been day-dreaming about lunch all morning... Sushi and salad at Green Eat... yes, please! Then suddenly, the phone rings and I'm summoned to the Agriculture Ministry to follow this meeting. 

"Shall I buy lunch on my way there?" I think to myself. I ponder. I ponder some more. "Nah, I'll be back in time for a late lunch and it'll be much nicer. And if it goes on for hours, I'll find something over there."

Big. Mistake.

First rule of journalism: Press conferences always start way after they're scheduled to start. It doesn't matter if you're in Argentina, the UK or Kazakhstan. One of the worst moments of my journalistic career was standing in the freezing cold in the middle of a golf course in St. Andrews, Scotland, waiting for then-Prime Minister Gordon Brown to exit the hotel where he'd been at a G-20 leaders' meeting. Were he to come out of the hotel, I was under strict instructions to pounce on him, ask questions and elicit breaking-news answers. Did I have any questions to ask him? Did I hell. And did he come out of the building? Did he hell. I waited there for over an hour and all I got were blue lips, rosy cheeks and freezing-cold mitts.

So I should've known better. At least with Gordongate I was well-fed. No such luck this time. I need a pee and I'm starving hungry. There are about 35 journalists here and I have no clue what I'm doing. Worse, they are all in pairs and can at least do tag-team to buy refreshments. And, very much like Gordongate, I have no questions to ask the minister when he comes out. Oh, and just to add insult to injury, I stubbed my toe on the freaking bank steps yesterday because the security guard was being so uncooperative, and now I'm limping around everywhere. Life sucks...!

In total, I spend five hours at the Agri Ministry. I eventually return to work, utterly ravenous and sun-scorched, with a very minor, very un-breaking-news-like three-line story. So that was worth it then...

Girl About Buenos Aires

Seven months ago, I decided to move from London to Buenos Aires. I have been in love with Latin America ever since I went to live in Brazil in August 2000, and I’ve been back to the region many times since. I worked in São Paulo for a couple of years in 2007-8 and, though I loved it, it was a lonely experience for a young twenty-something female. I went back to live in London and vowed that if I ever moved back to Latin America, I would go as part of a family, where I could enjoy the sunshine, lavish living arrangements and incredible food and drink opportunities with my husband and children. I also vowed that if I ever went back to live, it would be to Buenos Aires, a city I simply fell in love with when I visited in 2007 and 2008.

Alas, after two and a half years back in London, I found myself 28 years old, still single and in a bit of a career rut. I’d been working as a journalist covering Brazilian financial news for three years, and there comes a point where there isn’t much more original material you can produce about a country 5,000 miles away. My employer – a large, global financial media company – had people in South America just begging me to move back to the region, while their European counterparts seemed a little indifferent to me. Moving to Buenos Aires, Mexico City or São Paulo could do wonders for my career and I desperately wanted to continue working with the region. So when the lovely, British editor out in Argentina mentioned there was an opportunity coming up for a commodities and energy correspondent in Argentine, I didn’t need long to think about it.

To Marry an Argentine Stallion? 

The only question was my love life. I’d always reasoned that I didn’t want to settle down with a Latin American man – let’s just say I’d been there, done that and, though I have always been very attracted to the Latino type, I figured I’d be happier with a nice, down-to-earth Yorkshire man, or at least someone who knew a bit more about my childhood, background and culture. But, after three years of crappy dates, men who didn’t call and, well, let’s just say a withering talent pool, I figured I wasn’t getting anywhere in England and, anyway, love only comes when you’re least expecting it. What difference would a few years in Buenos Aires make? And maybe I would meet a nice, charming Argentine stallion along the way…

So, that was the decision made. I would move all my belongings to Argentina and make a proper life of it. I was desperately excited. Little did I know it would take an interminable seven months to get my business visa, and in that time I would meet the love of my life, a dashing Irish man, back on home territory. Typical – men are like buses! But I knew I’d be crazy to give up my big Argie opportunity for a man I’d only known for a couple of months, so I decided to move there for a shorter period before moving to Ireland for my man.

Marathon Training

I also decided a few months ago to run the Buenos Aires marathon. Running the 26 miles has always been on my list of things to do before I’m 30 and, since I’m 29 already and will probably be away for the London marathon next April, I figured I better start soon. The marathon is October 9. 

So, today, when I finally got my visa, I booked my flight to Buenos Aires straight away. I’ll be arriving on October 5, just in time to settle in for a few days before the big run. So… exactly one week to go. Buenos Aires, here I come!