Gripping my pen awkwardly in the thick pair of gloves meant to fight the predawn chill, I printed the last four digits of my home phone number onto the release waiver: three-three-three-five.

Beneath five layers of cloth, a shiver was running up my spine. No, I reassured myself, my 48-hour “Homeless Challenge” would not end with a phone call from the National Coalition for the Homeless headquarters to my mom, who was already sick with worry back in Illinois. I was about to board a train and ride the rails into downtown Washington, D.C. The city streets would be my home for two strenuous days and bitterly cold nights as a participant in the “Homeless Challenge.”

With five semesters of college education under my belt, a solid head on my shoulders and no substance abuse problem (other than a few wild nights in campus bars), I was far-removed from the stereotypes of homelessness. The poverty plunge I was about to embark upon was part of a week-long volunteer trip organized by Alternative Spring Break planners. The objective was to gain perspective on how to confront the homelessness that is a reality for over 500,000 Americans.

I traveled to the nation’s capital with nine other University students. For the plunge, we were paired off to wander the streets during the day, carrying our bedding in plastic bags. At 9 p.m. we would reunite with a member of the National Coalition for the Homeless and be guided to a resting spot where we could spread out our sleeping bags for the overnight hours. Hearing these instructions months before in the basement of the Champaign YMCA, I was more optimistic. Emerging from the train tunnel into the chilly morning air of Dupont Circle in downtown D.C., my anxieties were mounting. Walking the streets in 30-degree temperatures, even in the three pairs of wool socks I wore, seemed daunting.

Even more intimidating was the idea of begging and scrounging for three meals. I knew the cityscape fairly well from living and working there the previous summer, but tracking down my favorite eateries would be pointless without a dime in my pockets. My partner, a sophomore in LAS named James Allen, and I decided our first priority would be dumpster diving. Finding a scrap of cardboard and empty cup to use for panhandling was relatively easy compared to the task of drawing charitable Washingtonians to spare change. Overlooking us should not have been easy, we carried bulky sleeping bags and an unpleasant stench from following instructions by the Coalition not to shower for days prior to the challenge. Despite these circumstances, we were invisible to nearly all the well-dressed professionals who crossed our path. A few hours of panhandling earned us two $1 bills.

By half past noon with hunger clawing our stomachs, we decided to try another tool, our pack of cigarettes. For the price of two Marlboro Lights, we were led 14 blocks across the city in McPherson Square for a “Worship and Lunch” service by our new friend Derwin. He was wise to the streets and, in exchange for the smokes, led us to the weekly mass conducted by volunteers from a local Episcopal church.

The bread and grape juice they offered for communion were the first scraps of food we had all day. I suspected the situation was common to the 19 other homeless men and women in the park. After mass, we eagerly joined the line for a Cup O Noodles, peanut butter and jelly sandwich and more grape juice.

The crowd dispersed quickly after the food was distributed. However, James and I were unable to fade away as quickly as Derwin had. As a middle-aged African American, he fit the standard demographic for a homeless person at the lunch event. Caucasian women, especially under aged 30, were rare on the streets. A short blond parishioner noticed that I didn’t fit the demographic and asked, “Are you all right? You seem …”

Trailing off, she glanced suspiciously at James. Many of the women in shelters are victims of domestic violence. I reassured her that I was fine and accepted the yellow slip of paper listing local shelters and soup kitchens that she handed me.

The list of resources was a saving grace for James and me. Our next four meals were handouts from the vans that deliver meals at locations around the city. Nutritional value of the meals on wheels was lacking, mainly peanut butter and jelly or bologna sandwiches, but it sustained us enough to walk miles of city blocks.

The other staple of our homeless diet was coffee. Panhandling enough change for a brewed 12 ounces from McDonald’s gave us almost the comforts of home. We could rest our legs at a booth until the managers kicked us out. Making a purchase also gave us access to the restroom.

I never imagined finding a bathroom in a crowded commercial area would be a challenge, until I was turned away at the doors of a classy downtown hotel. Signs reading “Restrooms for Customers Only” were something I’d never noticed, until I was without the money to be a customer.

Our homeless guide for the night, Steve Thomas, could sympathize with our strenuous day and offer some direction. Steve advised us on Dumpster diving for a cardboard “mattress” and picking the prime benches on Pennsylvania Avenue.

“This right here,” he boomed, pointing a thick finger toward a 5-foot wooden bench, “is where I slept for one year.” He turned his round face to the tall streetlight, streaming beams upon the bench. “Some people like to huddle up in a dark corner, but I liked it here in the light.”

During our hours together, he told us about his struggle with drugs and alcohol, a battle with which 50 percent of the homeless population in D.C. could empathize. Steve had just celebrated 14 months of sobriety and worked full time as an advocate for the homeless with an organization called STREATS – Striving To Reach, Educate And Transform Society. When he wasn’t guiding groups on the challenge or in conference with the mayor and city council, he stayed in the long-term rehabilitation facility where he had cut ties with alcohol and crack addiction.

Frank Mearns, our other homeless guide, was quite a contrast to large and loud Steve. His tiny stature and thick brogue was not so intimidating, especially when his homeless friends taunted, “Hey, where’s me pot o’ gold?”

Frank has been homeless in 20 countries, including his native Ireland, and seemed to have friends on every corner, although his tenure in D.C. had only been a few months. He welcomed us into the small cove he slept in– – a bakery storefront on the corner of 14th Street and New York Avenue that was “home” to seven other homeless individuals. Dwelling there nightly was their alternative to sleeping in the shelters scattered throughout the city.

Frank’s friend Charlie Carson, a bear of a man who rivaled Steve for size, explained his aversion to shelters since being displaced from his Louisiana home by Hurricane Katrina. “You’re packed so tight that the smell and the heat are incredible. The shelter starts giving out beds at 7 p.m., and you’ve gotta be gone by 7 a.m., usually after getting all your money stolen overnight.”

Charlie was a skilled storyteller and a fellow journalist. He earned a few dollars every day vending copies of Street Sense, a newspaper about social justice issues written and sold by the homeless. Ironically, the newspaper business also sustained him through bitter nights. He helped us spread a layer of newsprint under our sleeping bags and blankets to insulate our bodies from the cold cement.

At 5 a.m., we were awoken from a restless night of shivering, to the news that a police officer would remove us if we didn’t move along. Police force was nothing new to the homeless, according to Charlie’s tales. With the inauguration less than a week away, he told us he expected to be chased out.

I was relieved we would be leaving the city before “the push,” as Charlie called it, during which all street dwellers would be rounded up and forced into shelters while their few possessions were stowed away in free storage lockers. To the daily traffic of the capital city, the homeless population was already invisible; however, when the cameras began rolling on Inauguration Day officials wanted to make sure they were literally out of sight and out of mind.