Where once newsrooms were places bustling with energy and noise, typewriters clapping, lead keys snapping actual ink on paper, the bell of the line return, the air thick with cigarette smoke, now it feels more like a place where microchips are made. Clean, quiet, thickly carpeted floors, noise-reducing ceiling tiles, midrise partitions for a modicum of privacy. Phones don’t ring; they hum, cricket-like. Almost no one speaks, as they are plugged in, headphones on, looking like air traffic controllers.
