We now present the third and final chapter of our harrowing tale!
After our delightful stay in Paris, we boarded the EuroStar train for an exciting ride through the chunnel. Oddly enough, we never noticed going through an actual tunnel. We did, however, notice the cocktail menu. And this funny sign.
You’d think they’d want to leave the first aid kit by the disabled bathroom.
It seemed like we were barely into our second round of drinks before the conductor announced we’d arrived at our destination…
As we exclaimed “Big Ben!” “Parliament!” over and over again, we knew this rainy city was full of famous sights.
And so did our high school friend David. It wasn’t long before Liz and David started drunken fisticuffs with the locals. Laura took bets.
We ascended a lofty tower to gain a better view of our surroundings. Our rainy surroundings. In fact, it barely stopped raining the whole time we were in London. It had been sunny for a few days when we were in Cambridge, and we quickly found that that scant scattering of non-rain-filled days were a hot topic of conversation, since it was the first nice weather of the summer. London is kind of like Seattle that way. Except they like tea instead of coffee. And there aren’t so many damn dirty hippies.
While we were walking through London’s quaint streets and back alleys, we passed what looked like a lovely, non-cult-related building. But the L. Ron Hubbard posters in the window and the sign over the door said otherwise.
Check out how the guy inside is looking suspiciously at us. This led Liz to make a most important phonecall. “This just in! England is funny”
We started to run low on funds, so we took a job as British guards. We weren’t so strict about smiling or laughing though…or drinking on the job…or being British.
They had these weird public port-o-potties on the street. They had literally no privacy…your privates are the world’s entertainment when you use these things. David refused to pose in it so Laura had to cowboy up and pose like a drunken London bloke.
While paying full respect to the sacred institution of being an important guard guy, we also had equally welling within us the desire to get that essential tourist photo of us with a stern Englishman. At least we said thank you, which is more than most of the bloated American tourists had the sense to do. It’s not like these guards are deaf, or robots, or deafbots. They just have an institution to uphold. And I’ll bet they know how to party.
And so my friends, our trip came to an end. We experienced a bit of culture. We consumed, we stereotyped, we drank. Then we went back to the sweet beckoning shine of America and ye olde NYC skyline, a little bit older, a little bit wiser…and a whole lot hungover…er, worldly.