At Foggy Bottom, we call it Tuesday afternoon. The annual ritual: Secretary of State Antony Blinken’s reception for the press. The room hums with polite clatter—heels on marble, glass against glass. Matt Lee, Andrea Mitchell, Jim Sciutto, Jonathan Karl—the familiar faces of the Washington press corps. And yes, I was there too.
These names are as much a fixture of the Washington press corps as the questions they ask. Because in this city, the news never sleeps.
I’ve attended these types of gatherings more times than I can count. Receptions hosted by the figures who cycle through the machinery of American power, each leaving their own faint imprint. Some are staged for the optics, others for the opportunists in the room. Most are forgettable, polite affairs that dissolve into a blur of handshakes and rehearsed small talk.
I’ve also been to those where some hosts take power posturing to unseen levels, placing a velvet rope around the stage as if to cordon off their authority, only to vanish into a side room, avoiding interaction entirely with the guests at the very reception they are hosting. Blinken’s receptions, however, are different—or at least they feel that way. His demeanor carries something almost anachronistic in Washington: a genuine affection for the press, or at the very least, respect.
The events are off the record, of course. A kind of fragile ceasefire. A détente between work and leisure, between the people who ask the questions and the people who sometimes answer them. There are no sharp inquiries here, no attempts to pry open uncomfortable truths. Just champagne and Pinot Noire, underppined by the unspoken understanding that this is not the place for confrontation.
It’s an evening spent among Who’s Who in American journalism and diplomacy, a room orbiting the second most powerful man in the world. And yet, the room never feels weighed down by authority. It feels easy going and light. For a moment, the world feels like a balm.
Democracy, Blinken seems to genuinely believe, depends not only on the powerful but on those who watch them.
Ksenija Pavlovic McAteer
When I joined the State Department press corps, invitations to Blinken’s famed holiday soirées became a seasonal tradition. These gatherings, designed to soften the hard lines of diplomacy, reveal a different side of the Secretary of State. He is, by all accounts, warm, welcoming, unflappably easygoing. He makes everyone—staff, reporters, even the family members feel welcomed. “Good to see you,” he says. This year, he gave a special gift to my nephew, his official challenge coin—a timeless piece of history.
There’s something faintly surreal about these evenings, the sense of being both inside and outside history at once. It feels as though history is being written in the quiet pauses, in the laughter, in the way people linger near the exits. Blinken seems to understand this duality. He speaks about journalism with a sincerity that feels rare these days, acknowledging the precariousness of the profession and the vital role it plays. “You matter,” he tells us, in so many words.
At a time when journalism is stifled abroad and beleaguered at home, Blinken’s words are a reminder of why we do this work. Democracy, Blinken seems to genuinely believe, depends not only on the powerful but on those who watch them.
As someone who reports on the most powerful people in the world—at Foggy Bottom, on the Hill, in the White House—it is easy to feel cynical. And yet, there is something restorative in hearing Blinken speak about his love for journalism, something that feels almost like clarity. Or at least, like hope.
As I continue to write the first draft of history, I’ll hold onto moments like this. Like my nephew clutching Blinken’s coin, I’ll keep it as a small, fragile talisman in a world where journalism teeters between meaning nothing and meaning everything.
Pen to paper. Question to microphone. We keep going, because America, fractured and imperfect, still needs us.
And so I write.
