Fascinating recollections. Read the whole thing here at Vanity Fair.
We walk through the stately central hallway, pausing briefly to glance into the room where the president and the First Lady sleep. He smiles as we walk out onto the rainy Truman Balcony.
“Here’s my favorite part,” he says. “Quite a sight, usually, when the sun sets on the Washington Memorial.”
I stifle an urge to say, “Washington Monument.” It’s a little too early in our relationship to begin correcting the president.
Thankfully, Barbara is waiting for us in the Sitting Room. It’s strange to see my college friend in this place, and I am comforted by her familiar smile. I kiss her cheek, and she introduces me to Mrs. Bush, who is impossibly delightful. As I move forward to shake her hand, I lead with my left side to keep my rain-soaked wrinkled khakis from awakening the odor of marijuana tucked inside the cigarette pack in my right-hand pocket.