Two foreign correspondents are half-sliding across the icy surface of Oktiabrskaya Square. I am trailing close behind them. If I had a tail, I'd be wagging it madly at this time. I am in Moscow, working on a story (obviously it's the biggest assignment I've ever done).

As we pass a ghostly statue of Lenin, I ask the journalists where they've been when major events took place in Russia. They tell me about following the crowd to the local White House during the protests in the early 90s.

Suddenly, my companion pauses, turns to me and muses, "You do have a very romantic perception of journalism, don't you?"

Feebly I try to contradict the statement. But I know it's true.

The reporter, pragmatic and cynical, tells me this job just pays his bills. He might be exaggerating -- skepticism remains in fashion these days. Still, I keep feeling like an excited puppy, around these two seasoned hounds. Is it so wrong to be naive?