by Dana Perino
The flight came to an end all too quickly and we exchanged details. Dana had no business cards left, so on the back of one of mine she wrote, “Dana Perino, home number, office number, fax number, e-mail address.” So I was excited by the thought that Dana was apparently interested, or was she just being very friendly? I insecurely bounced back and forward between those thoughts for days.
We parted at the airport, and when I rounded the corner away from her, I did something I had never done—I jumped up and clicked my heels. For the next few days I was working in various U.S. cities but could not stop thinking about her. Upon my return to the U.K. on Thursday the 21st, I told only two friends about this incredible girl I had met, one of whom, my assistant Lynn Bradley, said, “She was just being friendly, you daft bugger.” Lynn was trying to protect me.
The next day, on the premise that I had nothing to lose, I wrote an e-mail explaining how I felt—how I couldn’t stop picturing her there in the seat beside me, those eyes constantly smiling, her laugh enchanting, and how I really wanted to see her again.
That was Friday the 22nd and the following week I was on vacation, a motorcycle tour. I didn’t remember until later but Lynn said that I told her, “If something happens to me on this trip, will you please let Dana know?”
On the Tuesday I called the office from Wales, and Lynn said I had a postcard from America. I excitedly listened as she read it over the phone, Dana telling me how much she enjoyed meeting me and hoped to see me on my next trip to the U.S. Then Lynn broke the news that my e-mail had bounced back; in those early days of e-mail we were in the middle of changing providers. Dana had sent the postcard but had not heard from me!
Devastated by this news, the next day I canceled the remainder of my vacation travels and headed back towards the office, arriving at 5:30. It was closed, but I let myself in and hurriedly resent the e-mail with an explanation as to its tardiness.
Now, back to Dana…
As I sat down on the flight, he asked if he could put my bag up above, and I immediately noticed his British accent. (American women fall for it every time.) I did a quick scan and saw no wedding band. (I’d later find out that he’d only decided two months before to stop wearing it, just before his divorce was almost final. I probably would not have talked with him if he’d had a ring.)
I thought he was quite handsome, and I loved his blue eyes. Like most travelers, I just like to be left alone on a plane. I was reading Toni Morrison’s Beloved and wanted to finish it on the flight, but he seemed friendly and I wanted to be a nice American to keep up our reputation as a welcoming nation, so I asked him about the book he’d put in the seat pocket. Two hours later we were still talking. From books we’d moved on to talk about his recent travels, European and American politics, and where we grew up. He loved the free market and a strong national defense (so did I), and wasn’t a fan of President Bill Clinton (neither was I at the time—we met in the middle of the Monica Lewinsky scandal). We realized we were on safe terrain to discuss our political beliefs.
Peter was so easy to talk to. We just kept chatting, going from one subject to another. I loved his laugh. I could see he had great legs through his jeans. And his hands were strong and tanned. I learned a lot about him in a short period of time. (I was a good interviewer.) His dad was an air traffic controller in the Royal Air Force and he’d moved around a lot as a kid. His mom died from a massive heart attack when he was only eighteen years old. For a couple of summers he worked on a farm. He grew up with dogs and wanted one of his own (good sign!). He liked to ride motorcycles and scuba. He’d traveled all around the world, to so many of the places I wanted to see. He was well read and educated at a Scottish boarding school, kind of like Harry Potter. He had two kids from his first marriage—they weren’t much younger than me. He’d lived in Germany and Saudi Arabia for work in the medical device industry, and near championship golf courses in Scotland but he didn’t play the sport (another good sign). Norwich was his favorite football team—he supported them out of loyalty even though they rarely won a match. I admired that about him—he was a solid, steady, and dependable man of character and charm. What wasn’t to like? And for as much information I got out of him during the flight, he was also interested in me and knew a lot about me before we landed. There’s something about being on an airplane that makes you say things more openly than you would if you ever thought you were going to see that person again. Little could I imagine (well, I was already starting to).…
At one point I had to tear my eyes away and look out the window because I realized I was falling in love with an older guy from Britain who happened to be assigned to sit next to me on a plane. I felt myself losing control of my emotions and thought how silly and immature I must seem to him. As he was talking, I privately said a little prayer, “God, I know I asked you to help me find somebody, but this can’t be right. He’s much older than me, he lives in England, he’d been married twice before, he could be an axe murderer, and did I mention he lives in ENGLAND? How could I fall in love with him on a plane? Come on. This can’t be for real.”
But the rush of feelings didn’t stop. This was very new to me—I hadn’t had a date in quite a while, let alone someone who I was attracted to as much as I was to Peter during the trip. For much of that flight I felt giddy. When I’m asked the secret to our marriage, I agree with couples that have been married a long time—he’s always made me laugh. Even that day on the plane he told me silly jokes that still make me giggle, like, “Did you know that Mahatma Gandhi had a brother who worked in a coat check in England? His name was Ma-HAT-ma Coat.” He can’t believe I keep laughing at that one, but to me, it never gets old.
There was just one little thing, however. Peter had brought a McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish on the airplane. That’s disgusting. He later explained it was because he had a hangover from the big conference party the night before and it was the healthiest thing he could find on the menu at the time, but still, that’s gross. No one should bring fish on a plane. He hasn’t since.
As we were landing, I felt a mix of panic and dread. I didn’t want the flight to end, and we had an awkward moment about whether to share contact information. I didn’t want to look too forward and offer my number, but thankfully he brought it up. I was out of business cards from the media tour, so he gave me one of his (the card stock quality was excellent) and I wrote down every which way he could get a hold of me. Admittedly, I went overboard when I gave him my fax number.
Then I didn’t hear from him.
I went back to work on the Hill the day after I met him. We were still in August recess so the Capitol was a ghost town. I decided to get my files in order, and when I opened my desk drawer, I saw a postcard of Georgetown in spring with lots of tulips that I’d picked up with the intention of sending it to someone. Peter and I had talked about my favorite flower, tulips, and how much he would like to see Georgetown one day. Serendipity? I figured I had nothing to lose by sending it to him, so I wrote an innocent little “so nice to meet you” note and mailed it.
And then… silence. No reply. I was a wreck. I couldn’t sleep, eat, or concentrate. I needed to get my act together. The Congressman was coming back for the start of the fall session, and I had to refocus.
I hadn’t told many people about Peter—just Helen Morrell, our office mom, and my best friend and landlord, Desiree Sayle. I was afraid to tell the other guys in my office because teasing was their sport and I wasn’t ready to have my romantic dreams killed just yet.
Since it was the last day of recess, I decided to spend my lunch hour reading a new book I’d borrowed from the Congressional Library about the life of Michelangelo, The Agony and the Ecstasy by Irving Stone. I vowed that when I got back to the office, I would never ever think of Peter again.
I picked a spot in the courtyard of the Rayburn House Office Building that had a fountain. It was hot and humid, and sweat beaded behind my knees and on the back of my neck, but I didn’t get up and go back inside. I made mys
elf sit through the hour and tried to forget about Peter and think about Michelangelo. Finally, when my insides started to melt, I stood up, stretched, and snapped my book shut. I was over him. Until I got back to my desk, that is. I had mail.
While I was trying to forget I’d ever met Peter McMahon, he was rushing to his office to resend the original e-mail that had bounced back. And so I sat down at my desk and fired up my computer (it was 1997, remember), and the first e-mail in my in-box was from Peter. In his note, he didn’t hold anything back—he figured he’d never see me again and so he just said what he felt in a few paragraphs. I read it a few times, tuning out the office chatter.
So I hadn’t been crazy after all—he’d felt the same way about me as I did about him. I printed the note and put it in my wallet. I sensed my life was about to change dramatically. Despite the odds, and a flight I almost missed, I’d finally met my match.
We followed up with more e-mails and soon were talking by telephone a few times a week and then multiple times a day. He’d call me during his long commute home from work, which was my lunchtime, and I’d whisper into the phone so that my colleagues couldn’t eavesdrop. The calls cost a fortune, but he said not to worry about that (and his boss, a real friend and a bit of a romantic, told him he’d cover the personal calls even though it was a company phone). Peter also sent me handwritten letters (they were kinda sappy but lovely), and I responded twice a week. It was a traditional, long-distance, whirlwind romance—like something from one of the books I’d read.
Now if you could name the last thing you’d think Dana Perino would do, it might be flying off after work one Friday to meet up with somewhat of a stranger in New Orleans for a weekend, but that’s what I did. I’d told myself during my quarter life crisis that I wanted to be more spontaneous, to live more in the moment, and to travel to places so that I could experience some things—and there was Peter offering me the chance to do it. I trusted him enough to go with the flow.
I didn’t accept his offer to meet up in the Big Easy right away. (I wasn’t that easy!) I said I’d just see him the following weekend in Washington when he was scheduled to visit. But the day before his trip, I changed my mind. I said I’d go to New Orleans. He was thrilled but panicked. I’d waited so long to say yes that he had trouble getting me a plane ticket and finding me a hotel room. (Such a gentleman!) But he didn’t tell me it was a hassle. All I had to worry about was what I was going to pack (and whether to tell my parents—I didn’t).
My flight to New Orleans felt like the longest I’d ever taken. My nerves were on fire and I thought they’d either be pushing me off the plane or I’d be climbing over the seats to get to the front of the line. This was before Facebook and Skype—Peter and I actually had met on a plane two months before—and I worried we may not recognize each other.
But he was there waiting for me as soon as I exited the gate. It was kind of awkward, but not in a bad way—our excitement and nerves pushed us to the cab, where we kissed a lot on the drive into the city. I felt sorry for the driver, but as we were in New Orleans, I’m sure he’d seen worse.
“Nawlins” makes for a good weekend of partying and sightseeing. Peter had plans to take me to famous restaurants, like Felix’s, where he ordered the red fish (that’s when he found out I don’t like fish—that hadn’t come up on our hour-long phone calls). I was a bit too anxious to eat, so I drank instead, thinking that would help me relax. I even threw back some Jell-O shots (this is not like me). I must have been really nervous because the alcohol didn’t affect me at all. Peter, on the other hand, had never had a Jell-O shot and after several drinks felt very drunk. We tried to rally on Bourbon Street but we threw in the towel and called it a night.
The next morning we met up for beignets and coffee at Café du Monde, walked through Jackson Square, and then went to the Aquarium of the Americas to watch an IMAX film about killer whales. I thought it was sweet that Peter fell asleep during the movie and snorted himself awake (the difference between just meeting and being married seventeen years: I no longer think that’s cute—well, maybe a little). We topped off that night with dinner at the Court of Two Sisters. By this time our hands were locked and we were comfortable with each other.
Saying good-bye was tough. He took me to the airport. I got that panic that people in long-distance relationships get when you know the loneliness is about to overwhelm you. Thankfully, that was offset since I’d see him the next weekend in Washington. There was something he felt he needed to say before I left, and it wasn’t easy for him to tell me. Before I went through security, he told me that after his son was born, he’d had a vasectomy and wasn’t able or planning to have more children. He thought I would balk at that, or even be mad at him for starting a relationship without that fact being revealed. I was eighteen years younger, after all, and he didn’t know that I’d gradually come to realize I didn’t want to have children of my own. He was relieved when I said, “Oh, thank God!” Talking family planning after meeting on a plane and seeing each other two months later is a sure sign that the relationship is going somewhere.
It sounds impossible, but we knew we would be together as a couple from that weekend on. It was when I felt like I was becoming the person I wanted to be—one that was a little less cautious and rigid and more willing to be unconventional (and loved).
The next weekend in Washington, I got to take Peter through the Capitol and he liked it when I flashed my badge and we bypassed the tourist line. I introduced him to my friends and they fell for him, too. I took him to my favorite place, the National Cathedral. In the courtyard by the roses, Peter suddenly asked me to marry him. Whoa. I knew that we would get married but I said, “Hold that thought.” I was drunk with love, but I was sober enough to hold back.
Two months later, I was planning a move to England. My quarter life crisis had cleared the way for a lifetime commitment.
Little Person, Big Move
We were a couple in a hurry. Over the next nine months, Peter flew to the U.S. ten times and brought me to the U.K. twice. Nine months after we met, I moved to England. To give me some control over my circumstances, Peter bought me an open-ended return ticket. I thought that was very thoughtful—he knew that I was concerned about being financially dependent on him, and he didn’t want me to feel trapped. Knowing that I had a way out of England gave me some personal security and showed me he had the confidence and maturity I’d been looking for in a man.
I moved to the U.K. in May 1998, right in the middle of all the sordid details and tedious hearings about the intern and the President. I had mixed feelings—I couldn’t wait to get out of D.C. but I really wanted to be around for whatever was going to happen.
It took me a while to get used to saying that I was quitting my great job on the Hill and moving to England. It sounded so unlike me. My friends were shocked but pleased, perhaps a little envious of my chance for an adventure. Even my parents were happy—I worried about telling them I was going to live with Peter (imagine!), but I got their full support. Although I kept expecting someone to say I was making a mistake, I never heard that. I decided to stop trying to talk myself into thinking that our love story was too good to be true.
We lived in a northern village called Lytham St. Annes, near Peter’s parents and a thirty-minute drive from his office in Blackburn. Lytham is about twenty miles as the crow flies from Liverpool and an hour south of the Lake District. Any meteorologist could tell you that it’s one of the dreariest places on earth (a weatherman in the U.K. has the easiest job—it’s always going to rain). When I landed in London, the sun was shining and the countryside looked so pretty on our drive. But the sun in England is a big tease. The summer of 1998 in the U.K. was the wettest and coldest in twenty years. It really put a damper on things.
I had nothing to do—no responsibilities, obligations, meetings, dinners, or events. Wasn’t that exactly what I thought I wanted—total freedom and flexibility? I thought so, and for a few months it was great. I didn’t reall
y have to get up early in the morning, but I rose to have tea with Peter and see him off before he left for work. It helped me feel somewhat productive, too, even though my to-do list was very short. I’m a morning person (most optimistic people are—maybe it’s in our DNA, some code from a long time ago that says, “Get up! There’s so much to do!”), but that meant that I had really long days with nothing planned, so it’s not surprising that I got a bit… restless.
I learned to cook a few vegetarian meals from the Moosewood Cookbook. (Blue Cheese Heaven—what’s not to love?) I got a library card and read lots of historical novels, including my favorite, The Autobiography of King Henry VIII by Margaret George. I joined the fitness club and took step aerobics classes and race-walked on an old-fashioned treadmill. I took swimming lessons and learned to dive without holding my nose. I watched the World Cup on TV, cheering for Uzbekistan because I liked their uniforms better than the other team. I even started volunteering to help a mom in the village who had a little boy who had never walked—his legs didn’t work and he had to crawl along the floor to get around. She needed my help to watch him while she ran errands. I’d play board games with him and let him teach me how to speak with an English accent—“May I have a glass of water, please?” we’d say back and forth, practicing for Peter, who was determined that I’d get at least that phrase right. Volunteering helped me feel a connection to my mom—it was the most fulfilling way I spent my days.