Nevertheless, when an outreach worker asked me if I wanted to go into the dilapidated home , I didn’t hesitate to say “of course”. My curiosity was too overwhelming for any other reply.

Trying my best not to hit my head, I followed the guys under the house to the “secret” entrance, using my Canon: Speedlite 430EX II to give my footsteps reference. I came up through the floor and immediately smelled something reminiscent of defecation and disheartenment.

Sad would be a gross understatement to describe the living conditions of the person who had been living there. Disgusting would be a compliment. There were piles and piles of used toilet tissue scattered in various areas of the house. Feces was thrown, or perhaps wiped, on the walls.  There were huge holes in the ceiling. And there was a sense of the truest despair I have ever encountered.

We visited several more houses that night, and each one had its own unique level of despondency but nothing seemed quite as deplorable as the first. All the same, I am grateful to have had another once in a lifetime experience.

Bearing that in mind, I guess my latest piece of humble pie shouldn’t have been so unexpected, but it was especially unappetizing.

I submitted a proposal for my “project story,” which all the students at the Institute are expected to complete. After shooting interviews, tracking down subjects and talking to every family member, friend, journalist, janitor and delivery man who had ever even heard of my subject, I sat in the studio staring at a pair of monitors and digging for a story. The Institute’s video directors, my immediate supervisors, pulled me aside and explained in excruciating detail how my story got off track. It took a moment, but when terms like “stonewalled” and “glad-handed” entered the room, my ego greeted them on the way out.

Maybe the scope of the story was too big. Probably so. Maybe I didn’t ask the right questions. I’m not sure. Either way the ax was dropping on my story.

It’s an ironic thing. As an editor, my job is to carve information into a story. That means a lot of cuts, so I should be used to having my work pulled apart. It wasn’t my editor’s fault. I had sensed it too. My observations were a bit more self-serving than theirs but the point was the same. I had no story.  I told myself to take it like a journalist, but it was easily the bitterest bite I had taken in some time. 

It didn’t kill me so I can only assume I’m a little stronger.   

Life in the Institute has served up some interesting things. I expected no less in New Orleans. Sometimes you just have to choke it down.

I’m sure most of us don’t need an intro to who Jill Abramson is; after all she is a managing editor for the top newspaper in the world. But for those who don’t, I’d like to introduce her through my point of view. She’s the woman who came into the office wearing the white Dillard sweatshirt and, let me tell you, she was proud to have been wearing that sweatshirt. When she first walked into the office she was briefly introduced, and then she quietly sat down. I thought to myself “This is my opportunity to speak to her. After all a few days before she came I had e-mailed her.  She hadn’t responded so it was the perfect conversation starter.”

I walked up to her and said “Ms. Abramson, I e-mailed you about my story and you didn’t e-mail me back.” She said she didn’t get my e-mail because she has this crazy e-mail system that tosses out messages sometimes. It was all right, because she was ready for me anyway.

For the next hour I had what I would call an “intense” one-on-one session with Jill, something that most journalists (excluding those at Yale ,where she sometimes teaches, and those she works with) don’t get to have. We talked about the research that I had done and it took her no more than two minutes to write an outline for a story that I had been working a week on. I know you’re probably thinking, “Are you serious? Two minutes?” It was probably more than two minutes but my point is that she’s amazing. She not only saved me hours and hours of time but she also gave me firsthand experience on what a reporter at The Times might go through. Sometimes, Don told me, editors will write the outline for stories for journalist as long as the writer is able to back the outline up with understanding and sources.

To add to my experience with Jill, she invited me and another journalist, Phillip Lucas, to tag along with her on a meeting with Councilwoman Stacey Head. She came to get Phil and me   at 8:30 a.m. The least I can say about the journey to the Community Coffee House on Magazine Street is that it was an adventure. It was raining, we were lost, and a few minutes late to our meeting with the councilwoman. Of course everything worked out: We arrived at the coffee shop and there was Stacey Head, a woman who I had learned a little about during my short stint in New Orleans. I’m working on a story that involves race relations and Councilwoman Head is the perfect source for my story. Little to my and Phil’s knowledge, Jill wasn’t going to be staying for long. She soon left us to go to another meeting. It was fine, though, because we did what we do best. I probably won’t see her again for a long time but I hope next time I send her an e-mail she gets it.

This may not sound like the most interesting story, especially if you’re not a journalist. I can say that having one-on-one time with Jill Abramson is like an aspiring basketball player playing one-on-one with Michael Jordan. So just imagine how big of a deal this was for me. Meeting Jill was the icing on the cake that was already iced.

It’s true; I have a romantic vision of New Orleans.

One day, while driving from a meeting on health care, I took several wrong turns and found myself very, very lost. Too full of pride to call for directions back to the university, I drove around aimlessly for what seemed like hours.

This was not a safe or responsible decision, but it reiterated my feelings about the city. Despite being ravaged by Katrina, New Orleans has a strange ambience of romance, celebration, mystery and danger.

If my description of the city sounds like a trailer for a 1930’s film noir, remember that it’s coming from a young visitor who was seeing the city from inside the locked doors of her compact car.

I just can’t explain it (which is probably something a journalist shouldn’t say), but New Orleans has a raw charm that isn’t just a fabricated gimmick sold on Bourbon Street. Profound and bizarre histories still permeate the city’s alleyways and neighborhoods, regardless of their post-Katrina condition.

It is impossible to ignore the devastation New Orleans has faced, and no one should. Nearly four years after the hurricane, it is shocking to see abandoned and desolate homes, schools and hospitals where sheets of plywood have replaced blinds and curtains.

One cannot see these sights while strolling the French Quarter. It is much more pleasant and mind-easing to sip a hurricane at a bistro on Decatur Street.

The other day someone called New Orleans a “Potemkin village.” Feeling embarrassed and uncultured for having never heard the phrase, I embraced the almighty Google: It’s something created to deceive.

I disagree with the statement, but as a short-term visitor my assessment of the city is probably unfair.

Before the institute, I had visited New Orleans only once. Now, a week into the program, I’ve spoken to state representatives, a former boxer in the Ninth Ward, a British music historian with a passion for Cajun/rock music, and a woman who blames a city hospital for her husband’s death. Yesterday, as he said goodbye, a museum security guard took my hand and called me “young princess.”

This city is full of fascinating and strange people who create its alluring atmosphere. I look forward to exploring more into New Orleans’ resilient and indescribable heart.

Now if I can just get someone to do a Stanley Kowalski impression outside my window.

When I didn’t arrive at my apartment by midnight – I was scheduled to be in by 10 p.m. – my roommate Facebook messaged me, “Are you OK?” I was, just delayed two hours in Atlanta where I sat on a dirty carpet reminiscing about old friends and a new phase in my life.

But then it happened – I started coughing. It came suddenly, perhaps a consequence of new surroundings. Regardless of what triggered it, the cough, it hasn’t stopped since.

When I boarded the plane I thought for sure I’d be over my newfound sickness. I went to sleep, leaning on the plane window hoping the terrible itch in my throat would go away. It didn’t. I woke myself up coughing and watched our plane land in New Orleans through watery eyes. I’ve never had allergies.

I tried to hide it the first day, silently holding in my coughs as muffled sounds. It’ll go away, I thought.  Instead, the coughs – which come about every 10 minutes – have spread to other participants. My hidden muffles of the first day have turned into a chorus of coughs as other participants have developed “my allergies.” Hopefully my fellow participants won’t hold it against me. Hopefully, I won’t be remembered as the girl who spread her cough but rather as the one who eagerly worked through it, making special stops at Rite Aid to purchase a bottle big enough for everyone to share.

Ok, in case you don’t know, it’s really hard for me to get up in the morning … really hard. So yes, breakfast was missed and replaced with a bottle of water and a chocolate cream filled cupcake and summertime Oreos. That definitely got my blood sugar up.

When lunchtime rolled around, I was back at Dillard’s cafeteria. I love seafood, so when I saw fried catfish and baked catfish on the menu, nearly lost my mind. What graced my plate was fried catfish, baked Cajun catfish, mac ‘n cheese and cabbage.

I was like a kid in the candy store when I carried my plate from the line to the table. I was ready to go to work. First was the mac ‘n cheese … it earned two thumbs down. It was so disappointing for the first thing to touch your taste buds to be so bad. It almost hurts. Next up: the baked Cajun catfish, which was one sprinkle of seasoning away from being over-seasoned. I enjoyed every bite, though. It picked up the slack from the mac ‘n cheese. Along with broccoli, I’m a big fan of cabbage. I don’t know why, I just am. As I imagined, the cabbage did not disappoint. (Yes!) Now, to bring it all home, before I even thought about eating the fried catfish, I have to get the right sauce. I don’t have a name for it yet, but sauce can’t be bought, it has to be made. Take some tartar sauce and ketchup, and mix it together. Don’t knock it until you try it. I cut up my fish into a few pieces, and dipped them into my sauce…it was like a cherry to a sundae … perfect.

Due to two photo assignments, I missed dinner. I will be in the French Quarter tonight, so we shall see what food comes from that. Until next time, I’m out of here like a fat kid in dodge ball.

When the bathroom door is stuck, there are few options, and when removing the doorknob fails, the remaining option is bad news for the door.

It was past midnight and we had just finished in the newsroom when my housemate Justin Phillips came in the townhouse with a screwdriver and a very concerned look on his face.

The bathroom door is stuck, Justin exclaimed. He had alerted security, who sent him back to the complex with a screwdriver.

Students have often complained that doorknobs in the townhouses are stiff, sometimes getting stuck and leaving people  momentarily locked in the bathrooms.

That night, we were worried about how we’d get INTO the bathroom in the morning before work. Exasperated and facing an early morning in the newsroom, we sat outside the unyielding door weighing our options:

A)     Remove the screws from the knob and hope that somehow the door would magically open. If not, we could always force the door open.

B)      Climb through the bathroom window and risk breaking it-letting in species of insects I’ve probably never even seen before.  It’s termite season, and after seeing the supersized roach in our unit Sunday, option B was out. (The roach reminded me of the time I moved into Drew Hall at Howard University, and I thought it would be funny to call my mom and laugh at my luck on the first day here.)

C)      Do nothing and hope we could wash up in our neighbors’ townhouse, and pray maintenance would help later. That was off the table since everyone had to be up early, and we couldn’t risk entering the newsroom smelling like we never left it.

Security assured Justin that this happened all the time and that doors usually get broken because of it.

“Well, when in Rome,” I thought to myself.  After we agreed on sharing the worst luck in the world, we chose option A. When the entire knob had fallen through the door and it still wouldn’t open, “by any means necessary” rang in our ears.

After Justin forced the door open, we celebrated a problem solved.

The celebration ended when we saw what happened to the doorway.

When Justin looked, he considered taking his car for a night drive to clear his mind before bed. Since he did the work on the door while I snapped photos for evidence, I called Don Hecker to tell him what happened.

As the phone rang, another type of screwdriver suddenly came to mind. It faded when he said it was OK and could be handled in the morning.  Next, I overheard Justin telling someone about the doorway. He had called his mother too, but unlike my phone call, this one just didn’t seem as funny.

My first name is his last name, and we both have bad luck and call mom first when it hits the fan.

Whoever paired us in 3500 must have known something neither of us did until now.

Since it’s summertime there’s a limited menu at Kearny Hall, the dining room at Dillard, but we will manage. The food service provider is Sodexo, but this isn’t the Sodexo we’ve seen at our schools. This is the Sodexo that’s your older sister’s cute friend, something new that you haven’t experienced yet.

The lunchtime menu was fried chicken, carrots, greens, and red beans and rice.

The carrots were a little bland, but I decided to go ahead and finish them off anyway. My mother always told me, “Don’t waste food; eat your vegetables.” Along with the carrots were greens, which packed a punch and made for a good follow up. I am an avid fan of Popeye’s red beans and rice  so I have to keep in mind that all red beans and rice don’t taste the same. The serving I had today was decent, but what made it tasty was the sausage and bacon it included. The chicken was definitely the highlight of the meal – it wasn’t dry … (YES!)  And what’s a meal without dessert? I had a homemade Rice Krispie Treat to top it off and a sweet tea to wash it down.

This was lunch on the first day of the New York Times Student Journalism Institute, and already we were stuffed and nodding off.

Such a good lunch raised my expectations for dinner.

The dinnertime menu was beer-marinated grilled pork chops, shrimp fried rice, scalloped potatoes, peas and corn.

I attacked the peas and corn first. Both were delicious, especially the perfectly seasoned corn. The shrimp fried rice was tasty as well. I enjoy breakfast more than any meal of the day, so the pieces of eggs served as the kicker. The potatoes were probably the weakest part of the meal, but still stood strong. The grilled pork chop was pretty good. It was tender and had flavor. The only trouble I had was separating the meat from the gristle. The drink of choice was a Hi-C fruit punch.

The desserts that were available were the same thing from lunch. I opted not to. I didn’t want to ruin a good thing too fast.

Desiree Dancy, vice president of diversity and inclusion for The New York Times Company, makes opening remarks for participants of The New York Times Student Journalism Institute on Monday, May 18, on the campus of Dillard University in New Orleans. (Dale W. Clarke II/The New York Times Student Journalism Institute)

After two delayed flights coming out of Norfolk International Airport I finally made it to New Orleans and to the New York Times Institute being held at Dillard University.

The program is primarily a two-week journalism boot camp for current students and recent graduates from universities from all over the country. And each one of us seemed anxious, excited, and a little nervous to get things started. We all recognized that this is an opportunity for a lot of us to further develop our journalism skills and to learn more about ourselves.

Staff from the New York Times and Dillard University, along with a handful of media professionals from various newspapers and institutions, have helped us in a variety of ways.  They are giving us the tools needed to be successful at the institute and in our future careers.  We have been given a lot of freedom to explore and experiment with different aspects of media.  For example, traditional print reporters have the opportunity to do video stories or edit copy.  And the staff continues to give us guidance on how to go about the next two weeks of intensive journalism practice.

I hope to develop meaningful relationships with our advisors and my fellow talented, aspiring journalists. I am very grateful for the opportunity to be here. And I’m looking forward to working with all the people at the institute.

Staff members from the New York Times Co. presented five specialties offered at this year’s newsroom: video journalism, Web production, copy editing, page design and wire editing.

While several presenters spoke about the different opportunities available over the next two weeks, the underlying message of the specialties workshop was the same: Good reporting, clear writing and news judgment will set any good journalist apart from the rest. Simone Oliver, a fashion and Styles Web producer, and Justen Fox, a technical producer, offered clear insight: the industry now values individuals who have technical skills and news judgment.

 ”The job market was always competitive, but it’s especially competitive now,” Oliver said. “You have to become the person who wears many hats.”