Relay

Carissa Katz

The conversation around the newsroom can quickly elevate to a frantic, fevered pitch, especially when there's something really big to talk about, like where the President ate lunch on Saturday.

We all want to know. Who's staying at Ron Perelman's estate? Where was the fire on Thursday? Who met the President? That's part of the reason we're reporters. We want to know. Information is our currency and if we don't have any, we're dead broke.

The trade in juicy stories and inside information is usually pretty brisk around here, more so on Mondays when people share the weekend news. So you can imagine that this Monday in the wake of the Presidential visit there was quite a din. Stories told and retold all morning.

Although The New York Times article reported that he received an ambivalent welcome here, it seems that people in East Hampton and certainly around The Star have talked of nothing but the President, President, President for the past week and a half.

True, we're used to the famous, wildly rich, and purportedly important, but the President is another story. A national story.

I think people in East Hampton just have a different way of showing their excitement.

"They're not going to be blocking Georgica Beach all weekend, are they?"

"Will I have to change my jogging route?"

"Stock up for groceries before he gets here!"

Here we express our excitement by making ourselves a part of the general frenzy. One of the most important and powerful men in the world is spending the weekend in East Hampton. How will it affect my schedule? What will I wear?

We answer anticipation with worry. It makes us feel a part of the picture everyone's gawking at.

Don't be fooled by this apparent nonchalance. East Hampton people were proud to be visited by the President of the United States, but we weren't surprised. If everyone else wants to come here, why shouldn't the First Couple? Or something like that. And then, of course, there's the treasure trove of potential party contributors.

At this point, though, I've heard more than enough of Presidential stories - his route from Atlantic Golf Club back to Spielberg's, what he ordered at Turtle Crossing (hush puppies and barbecue), the cowboy boots he wore for his radio address at the Amagansett Firehouse, etc., etc., etc. And then I've heard them again.

It's like some bad song I can't get out of my head. Before he arrived the words "Presidential visit" plagued my dreams, over and over.

"Presidential visit."

"Presidential visit."

"Presidential visit."

It was worse than "Barbaralee Diamonstein-Spielvogel" (apologies to Ms. D-S), a name I often find myself repeating incessantly for hours after reading or writing it.

And in these dreams, I was assigned, with absolutely no information, no itinerary, no expected time of arrival or departure, and no press credentials, to report on the "Presidential visit." But the big question for me as I tossed and turned through a fretful sleep was, "Where is the President?"

Now that the "Presidential visit" is over, I am dreaming of Mr. Clinton surveying the Babette's menu and it's just driving me crazy that I don't know what he ordered in the end. Tempeh? Barbecued tofu? Wasabi crusted salmon?

And did he or didn't he go jogging on Gerard Drive?

The Star's writers and photographers were all on call this weekend to cover different aspects of the big visit. My task was to stake out the driveway to the Sheffer estate, where the President and Hillary Clinton were headed post-golf, pre-Baldwin party, for a little late afternoon fund raising on Saturday.

As I waited on the road outside the party a crowd soon gathered. "I heard they got out and shook people's hands," one crowd member said. Hopes were raised. There were a hundred people on the sidewalk at most. Chances were good.

After two hours and two false alarms, I thought about leaving. What was there to report anyway? But, held there by that obnoxious mantra, "Presidential visit, Presidential visit, Presidential visit," I couldn't go. I wanted to see this guy in person.

So I stayed around and, eventually, I caught the Presidential silhouette. Through the limousine window. On the other side of Hillary, who was waving in my direction. And I waved wildly along with everyone else. My hand and arm moving separately from the slightly aloof me.

For those few seconds as the limo made the turn into the Sheffer driveway, the President's profile was very clear. Then they were gone. Inside the hedges.

And, you know, it's still bugging me. What were the President and Mrs. Clinton wearing?

No, don't tell me now. I don't want to hear one more thing about it. Not one more thing until Thursday.

Carissa Katz is a reporter at The Star.