Traveling in Relative Hell.
We are back on land in Bloody ol’ London. Today, we started out at the Winston Churchill War Rooms viewing what life was like in his bunker. Strangely, it took me back to this past week that Scott and I were crammed into small living quarters with my Mom and sisters. Sure Churchill and his ministers endured the bombing of London and the blitzkrieg while holed up underground, but we had to endure nightly dinner time entertainment like the baked Alaska dance; which is suspiciously like the waiters from 55 countries promenade. (Of course, in Bratislava, Algiers, Latvia etc., the ship’s bunker-like quarters are known as the Presidential Palace in their guttural languages). Much like Churchill and the Brits dealt with famine and food shortages as they mapped out their strategies, we had to wait at least 47 minutes between shipboard meals and once they even ran out peppercorn sauce for the beef. We next went to high tea where my Mom and Dev ate sandwiches that match the skin tone of most Brits. It’s hard to think that the revolution started over some soggy Tetley tea bags. Next, we were off to Harrod’s shopping and food hall. Everything looked so unique and tasty that Lauren almost ate a tote bag by mistake. It took six Bobbys and the jaws of life to extricate Dev from the designer purse section. Scott’s last day is tomorrow, as he will leave our “bunker” a day ahead of us unless he gets Stockholm Syndrome and stays. Having left Norway and Denmark, it tends to be a diluted version of the syndrome so instead of identifying with one’s captors, Scott will likely just volunteer for another cruise with in-law Jews.
Rubber Chicken 