Flights of Wild Imagination

This might strike you as an odd observation or comparison, but bear with me. These flights of imagination are what make me such a excellent writer.
When I was hanging outside the Washington Court Hotel yesterday in the muggy heat of another Washington summer, having a cigarette and watching the valets in their gold corded uniforms greet cars, I was reminded of Africa. Maybe it was the fact that the valets were African, or the heat, but I felt as though I had been transported across the water in a second. Then, I started to create a fantasy story for myself, to fit into the feeling I was having. Here is the story.
I imagined us as journalists and photographers who are antsy and waiting for the real work to begin. But for now we are cooped up in what passes for a luxurious hotel, where our agencies have put us up. Despite the nice surroundings and the guests who are coming and going we are casual, loud and fighting off boredom as though it were the enemy. Inside it is cool and fans whirr, creating a white noise for our conversations to harmonize with. Outside the street is a little hazy with heat and people hurry to get off the street. Something is happening. We know it, that is why we are there, but we don't know exactly what it is. In the basement, the makeshift office is buzzing. Everything is makeshift, thrown together in a moment's notice, torn down as soon as the action moves elsewhere. We know our jobs will be starting soon and we will get to actually work but for now we are forced into relaxation.
Sitting around the hotel, hanging out with young people like myself, falling asleep on couches, not fitting into the slightly worn down posh surroundings. Always waiting; waiting for word to come across the scratchy walkies to move. Moving quickly, sweating but at least we're working.

I've always had an interest in the subculture that is the news industry. Not the newsanchors but the people who actually go out and find the facts for us. The ones who hunt down the contacts and risk life for the adrenaline of getting the picture. Theirs is an exciting world, but when the action stops the boredom sets in. They take over hotels and hole up together, waiting for something to happen. They are like vultures in that way, but intriguing all the same. What is the death wish they seem to carry? And the black jovolity or jaded sense of the world? I have seen a small side of it, studying photojournalism, but I would like to know more. What is it like to sit in that hotel, knowing people are dying and you are going to go into that mess to get the story? Is it cannibalistic; or necessary to let the world know what is going on? And to be able to travel everywhere, not being a tourist, but not quite fitting in wherever you go. It must be hard, but it must be amazing and exciting.