When I was seventeen, I worked at the New York Times Paris bureau. It was an idyllic experience: I was a young go-getter working amongst journalism heavyweights. Most were very respectful of me, or at the very least, polite. None ––which I find surprising looking back–– were difficult or evil in an office politics kind of way. But then again, I wasn't much of a threat. I had zits and baby fat.
One thing I do remember however is how much the energy would change when Judy Miller would come through town. It happened once or twice, but it was always jarring, a distinct interruption to otherwise smooth sailing.
She was, to say the least, toxic. Other correspondents loathed her, especially the ones who reported, like her, on the Middle East. Visiting journalists like Miller would typically borrow an office of a Paris-based journalist who was away on assignment. But some Paris journalists didn't want Judy using their desk (she'd go through their stuff). And the assistants dreaded her, too. She wasn't below putting us through humiliating paces, I was told.
The anticipation to her impending arrival was so distinct that I vividly remember seeing her for the first time. She was going to be my first office 'bitch' so to speak and I just remember being extra vigilant. This was a hated woman, and one who had "fucked Khaddafi," too. I was expecting Darth Vader.
I don't recall how she treated me. She may have been a breeze. But she was already, and this is 1992 or 93, a person who pushed some of the most brilliant, stately minds in journalism to sneak out of the office early. She was, for me at least, an education.