We met at Gatwick Airport (Part 4)
I breezed my way through immigration and customs, my mind in a complete fog. Appropriately, it had been foggy and spitting rain as the plane landed; apart from that, I had seen absolutely nothing London-like at all. A ball of anticipation, excitement and sheer terror, I followed the train of people into the Arrivals area. I had not looked long before I heard a familiar voice, deep and Anglican, boom, “Roz! Roz!” Red coat (check), “ginger” hair (check), glasses (check); must be Phil. We embraced warmly like old friends and collected my few bits of luggage.
It felt strange sitting in the left front seat of Phil’s red Vauxhall estate (wagon) and not driving. It felt strange sitting next to the man that I loved but had only just met, in a country populated by roundabouts. The wet, verdant countryside flew by as we chatted about our plans for my stay and listened to his favorite albums. I recall one particular song, “One Night Stand” by The Aloof; amazingly soulful and yet anthemic, the artist sings, “What am I doing here?” Indeed, but in a slightly different context, what were either of us doing here? Philip somehow managed to hold my hand between gear shifts, and it felt nice and not at all forced. I think there was a great sigh of relief from both of us.
Mostly, I just sat back and enjoyed the scenery, or what scenery that could be viewed from the motorway. Everything held my fascination: the zippy little Euro cars, the Little Chef signs at the rest stops, pubs with funny names like “Slug and Lettuce,” snug little semi-detached houses with postage stamp lawns, and roadsigns denoting the direction to such amusing place-names as “Dorking.” It was at this point that I found myself beginning to fall deeply in love not only with this man beside me driving on the wrong side of the road but with this weird and wonderful new world, Inglaterra.
We met at Gatwick Airport (Part 3)
I stared out the airplane window into the clear, dark night and tried to breathe slowly. I had taken two Valerian root, hoping to take the edge off of the inevitable anxiety that seized my mind. It did occur to me that I might indeed be insane, however by this point it simply did not matter. I had unloaded my story to the young man seated beside me. It seemed somehow significant that he was a dual-national, the offspring of a British father and a Louisiana mother; his accent was most unusual. But he had taken delight in the romance of the whole affair, whole-heartedly supportive in spite of my alternating waves of buoyancy and nausea. He sensed my moment of doubt, lifted a hand to my arm and squeezed gently with an empathetic grin. I smiled back, trying to rally. I tried again to push aside emotion and instead focus on the carefully detailed instructions Phil had given me for navigating Gatwick airport upon my arrival.
It had all been decided quite suddenly, during a conversation about Christmas presents. ”What would you like for Christmas?” I had asked. It should have been obvious: “Well, you here would be nice.” And why not! I had never been across the Atlantic and had always dreamed of going to England. And so the adventure was set into motion much sooner than expected. I would arrive dressed in a silver coat with black faux fur; Phil would be wearing a red coat and “ginger” hair–something not to be missed in and of itself.
But it was the particulars of our meeting that were eating me up. What would this long-distance “e-mail” relationship amount to in reality? Could the love we had so passionately professed down the phone lines translate into something more concrete? I had had Hollywood images of me walking out of customs, spotting him–traced in a golden aura–across the crowded Arrivals area, casting aside my luggage and us running in slow-motion toward each other to fall weeping into each other’s arms. But as I closed my eyes and allowed myself to sink into the welcome waves of drowsiness from the Valerian, I suspected that my expectations were, as always, too high.
We met at Gatwick Airport (Part 2)
Philip and I continued to correspond via email and the occasional phone call for several months. He was doing sound installations at the time and touring some with Delirious. He would tell me the names of all the exotic sounding English towns that he visited. He even sent me a UK road atlas so I could follow his movements; such a simple gift but I must say I was thrilled to have it. And I still have it, somewhere. . .
I enjoyed our friendship but kept a firm guard over my heart. I was determined that Phil was not the one, regardless of my mother’s not-so-subtle hints. Besides, I couldn’t possibly love someone I’d never met, could I? So I fought it as best I could but over time I began to feel the ice melting. I knew he was falling, too, so I tried to seem aloof and indifferent, hoping he’d get the message. I didn’t want to confront him or my feelings, but my feelings began confronting me. God was speaking to me about him; I began having dreams in which I found myself in love with him. And if that weren’t enough, I simply felt myself falling for the guy, the guy I still hadn’t met!
Then Phil booked tickets to come for a 3 week visit the following January. A good opportunity to really get to know each other, we agreed. Perhaps we would do a road trip out west, eating at greasy diners and drinking really bad coffee. But I think the shifting of gears in our relationship was beginning to make us both a bit nervous. And so we get to “the big reveal.”
“Okay, uh, I think it’s a good thing,” I finally responded after a long pause. Phil waited for something more. He had just gotten back after a long week of doing an install in an 11th century cathedral. No wifi, no iphone, no texting–for these were the “olden” days. During that time he had come to the conclusion that he had fallen in love with me and simply needed to know–before spending 3 weeks with me–whether this was a good thing or a bad thing.
What could I say really? I wanted to tell him the truth. But it was crazy. We were crazy! We hadn’t even met. I felt extremely happy to hear this news but also felt the need to be cautious. So, we agreed to leave it at that–”a good thing”–for the time being. And when I began to ask for friend’s advice about whether I should tell him I felt the same, there was an enthusiastic NO, I should wait until meeting him first.
But my heart would not be content until I told him. And so after several days I sent him an email informing him that I had fallen for him as well and giving him permission to continue falling.
We met at Gatwick Airport (Part 1)
. . . is what I tell people when we get asked, “So, where did you two meet?” I joke about it being one of those blind internet dates that most people have heard horror stories about. Our wedding invitation was a Close to Home cartoon with a very nerdy looking couple sitting in front of computer monitors divided by a large screen and a preacher standing nearby. The caption reads something like, “And now the bride and groom will each type ‘I do’ before coming out to meet each other for the first time.”
Okay, it may not have been that extreme but there definitely was an element of absurdity about the whole thing. No, romance rather than absurdity, let’s say. We’ve been married 10 years now so however romantic or absurd, God must have known what He was doing. That’s not to say that it has always been smooth emailing. I read once that a “good marriage” means that only one of you can be crazy at a time. I’m sure that’s not right. We both must be slightly nutty to have put up with each other for this long. No, madly in love rather than nutty, let’s say.
In the fall of 1995, Phil was visiting a friend and fellow entrepreneur in my native Tennessee. This friend happened to be sharing a house with my sister Heather. She called me up one day and suggested that I meet this charming and slightly quirky Englishman. I wasn’t interested in any romantic possibilities but decided it would be fun to meet someone with a cool accent, so I agreed to come over for a movie one evening.
Now that was the height of my wilderness college years, having temporarily wondered from my faith in Jesus Christ. The evening I was supposed to meet Phil, I found myself instead getting drunk with a friend. Later, I lay on my beige living room carpet, watching the black iron furniture and New Age art spin round and round me. I could hear my friend talking to someone on the phone, talking with her fake British accent I might add. “Oh hellooo Phil. Sorry, Roz couldn’t make it, she’s had a bit too much wine. . .” I was still too drunk to feel a warranted sense of shame, and instead began laughing hysterically, begging Laura to please hang up. ”I’ll have her call you. . . Cheerio!” Well, I guess I’ve heard the last of the Englishman, I thought, and tried to make the room stand still.
But I did try to meet Phil again and make up for my foolish behaviour. I arrived at the house, unannounced, only to be told that I had just missed him. I waited for about an hour and then left just before he returned. It seemed we were destined not to meet. He went back to the UK, and I carried on with my degree. Occasionally I would hear of him through Heather. “Phil says you need to stop ‘faffing about’ and get a life.” Who’s faffing about? I’m no faffer! Uhh, what does that mean? Still, there was something charming even in the criticism.
When Phil called me Super Bowl Sunday of 1997, I was completely taken aback. It had been over a year since he’d been in the States, and I had not spoken to him even once during that time. I thought it was gutsy of him to call me though. We talked about a mutual passion–music, a conversation that primarily consisted of him rattling off the names of British bands I’d never heard of.
“What?? How could you not know this band. You must hear this band. Go to a music store now and find this album. . .” I loved his accent but I will admit that I struggled with it a bit and probably only understood about half of what he said the entire conversation. But we exchanged email addresses, and I was pleased that I had found a pen friend of sorts.
