Three Parts Party, One Part Work

When I was interviewing for summer jobs in consulting, the firms loved to talk about their Culture. Culture seems to be an essential concept, an atmosphere of work and play that is unique to that workplace and occupation. Often, when turned down for a job, the company noted that I was not a perfect match to their Culture. So when I didn't get a single job offer and instead fled to Washington to be an intern for the summer, I assumed I would be thankfully free from the elusive pursuit of Culture. I was wrong.

During my first day in the office, an intern who'd been around for a few months already pulled me aside and said, "you'll probably really like your job, but what really makes the experience worthwhile is the intern...Culture." Apparently, flocking from all over the country, the 200 interns in the program are anxious to mix and mingle with fellow aspiring politicians and often stretch their workdays into long nights of play, usually at a trendy area pub. On weekends, they clamor into tour buses to see the monuments and museums. Cliques form. You're either in or you're out.

At the first mention of this Culture, I cowered. With visions of 200 exchanges of "hello-my-name-is-where-do-you-go-to-school-what's-your-major-what's-your-sign," I decided I'd be the exception to the rule. I would work eight hours a day in my office with three other interns--and head home immediately afterwards.

My roommate, who is the only intern at the place where she works, swore I'd be thrilled to have such constructive events. I couldn't think of anything worse. I'd gone to the Grille a few too many times, so the watering hole pickup scene was not too appealing. I'd grown up in Baltimore, so the monuments were the stuff of my junior high field trips. Excuses aside, I was afraid of this thing called Culture, doubting I'd fit the bill. I couldn't imagine having to pick out a skirt in the morning that was long enough for work and short enough for Happy Hour. I was not going to succumb.

The next day, I succumbed. First, my office became a microcosm of intern culture, with the three of us exchanging stories about college, moving to D.C. and future plans. Soon, we were going to lunch with some other interns across the hall. And on the way back from lunch, somehow bolstered by peer pressure, we stopped by the office of the internship director just to see where the happy hour would be that night. In a weak moment, I admitted a familiarity with the restaurants and bars in the area, and suddenly...I was named chair of the nightlife committee.

So, as the Mother Hen of the scamming and sloshing summer interns, I have gotten to spend the last few weeks examining Intern Culture in great detail. In between making sure that everyone makes it in the door regardless of age and no one makes it out the door without paying for all of their dollar bottles of Rolling Rock, I've been able to glean a few important facts.

First, everyone likes talking about where they go to school and where they grew up. These topics can sustain a conversation for hours, as the theory of Six Degrees of Separation proves true again and again. In fact, it turns out I first met one of the interns in my office on an exchange program in seventh grade. We spent hours talking about the fact that the person she had hosted was now married, and the person who had hosted me was incarcerated. Similar stories have popped up again and again.

Second, intense political discussions never really seem to arise. Bars are too noisy, and the subject matter is too boring. Besides, many of us are very entranced by the fact that we have been sworn to secrecy about the particulars of our jobs--why, indeed, would I write a column on social concerns when if I could tell you about the secret files I have access to in my unnamed workplace?--that we tend to shy away from any discussion even alluding to the government.

Finally, in spite of the fact that everyone tries to act cool, there's a subtle expectation that this summer in D.C. will be the key to the future--as both the ideal job and the ideal mate will somehow emerge out of three months of xeroxing and fetching.

All of these facts combined have made my summer's Cultural exploration quite entertaining. It is also fun to study other Cultures--such as the "I-Work-on-the-Hill" Culture, an elite group whose members claim to play softball with Senators. There are also Subcultures. I've been spending so much time getting to know my fellow interns that I haven't really been to any of the Summer in Washington events sponsored by the IOP, but from what I hear, Harvard Intern Culture--complete with mixers with other Ivies--is a blast.

Tonight, I decided to opt out of Happy Hour and come home to relax. Strangely enough, I found myself missing the conversation, and thinking that maybe the camaraderie isn't so superficial after all. Once you admit that summer in Washington is always three parts party and one part work, it's actually quite fun. Though you may sometimes feel you are wearing the Scarlet Letter, it begins to feel good to be recognized as an intern from 50 feet away. And though I don't think I'll become a regular at the Grille when I get back to school out of nostalgia for the summer, I'm glad I let myself experience the important of Culture before heading back to those consulting interviews.