I soon found myself covering the Watergate scandal as CBS White House correspondent. It was to be the first of many stories to prove that the idealistic hope of the 60's had indeed gone forever, and it was admittedly kind of fun helping to crush peoples' spirits like that.

Of all the places I visited in the tumultuous 70's — Vietnam, Haiti, Japan — it was China that captured my heart. I have since come to count on her for the tight, suffocating grip on her populace that makes for such great soundbites. China has an almost supernatural knack for exploding in political turmoil precisely when it's a slow news week. When Hong Kong returned to Chinese rule, I was there with microphone in hand, talking at whatever camera pointed in my direction. When demonstrations turned brutal in Tiananmen Square, I was there, watching safely from my hotel window while I shared the company of Mr. Tom Collins. When economic downturn erupted in labor unrest and uncertainty, and the People's Republic took to the streets in violent protest, I was there, vacationing.

But in 1972, China's throbbing boomtowns and malodorous rice paddies were as yet an unwrapped present waiting for me. In fact, I admit a slight unwillingness at first to even go. When I was first approached about going to China to cover President Nixon's historic bridge-building visit, my first reaction was an emphatic "Are you fucking kidding me?" I had just gotten back from Vietnam, where I'd suffered humiliation due to my lack of knowledge about Vietnamese culture. I was not eager to throw myself into yet another situation where my ignorance would reflect badly on me. (By the way, if you ever find yourself in Vietnam — and if you do, honestly, just leave — be careful not to throw your coat over any small statues and call them "little fella." They are apparently shrines to their ancestors. Go figure on that one.)

Luckily, my editor at the time had the presence of mind to know what was best, and so I was drugged, tied up, and flown over under cover of night. I woke up en route and, due to the power of the sedatives and the depths of my confusion, I had to be restrained until we landed. Once in China, however, I knew immediately that I was home. Unlike other places I could mention, the people of China are at their core polite and well-mannered, and did not comment negatively on my lack of awareness of their customs once. Even after I knocked over a statue, which admittedly looked kind of important, I was met with humble bows and nods. What a swell bunch of guys.

It would be nice to say that I was there with Nixon for his historic visit to the Great Wall, or close at hand during his first, also-historic meeting with Chairman Mao. Unfortunately, what the tour guides won't tell you is that China is a very, very large place, much bigger than you'd guess from the maps, which are small. Upon landing in China, I meant to head directly to the American Embassy, where I would be briefed on the specifics of Nixon's visit and given a press package detailing the scheduled stops. I flagged down a rickshaw and headed deep into China's heart, where I became impenetrably lost and spent the next week walking around dehydrated and confused.

After seven days of living off of raw chicken and wearing the same tasteful charcoal-gray suit, I managed only to make it back to the airport where I'd originally started. Terrified of getting lost again, I camped out on the tarmac until it was time to go back home. Though my first trip to China was disastrous, I would learn from my mistakes. On subsequent visits, I relied heavily on the "buddy" system, and it rarely failed me.