48 Hours to London

To be in Guards Chapel at midnight on Christmas Eve for an American is an illuminating experience, particularly for an American from New England...at the rear of the chapel remained half gone walls from a World War II bombing, walls that although no longer served their intended purpose, had been incorporated into the present day...even I, enobled by the faces of old veterans wearing their medals, managed to more or less keep in tune with the hymns that resounded into the next day...
Flying PanAm from Boston to Heathrow had been our intended route without interruption but as it turned out London was in the midst of a snowstorm and that meant flying off to Brussels where PanAm gave us the choice of staying the night or taking a coach to Zeebrugge and catching a Thompson-Thorsen ferry to Dover...with three young boys voting to keep moving we plunged on, boarding busses that carried us to Zeebrugge's ferry terminal and a chance to cross the Channel by boat...we were in Zeebrugge by 6 pm and the TT ferry collected us and the other 400 passengers at about 11 for the 7 hour cross...In its haste to accommodate everyone, PanAm handed out blank vouchers that we were to present for anything along the way apparently...to some of my fellow Americans that meant a trip to the ferry's gift shop and loading up on Christmas presents, gratis PanAm (I've always believed this present-grab at their expense drove them into bankruptcy, right at that moment)...my oldest son, Eachan, spent the entire time making friends with another boy, occupied by the on-board gambling machines...only time in my life when I've witnessed 8-year-olds actually gambling (and even winning)...Deborah and I were keeping company with Ben and Will, Eachan's brothers, mildly uneventful for the remainder of the voyage...At one point Deborah told me to look up and there before me and the rest of the 400, were the White Cliffs of Dover, this now being approximately 6 in the morning...on shore, luggage had mysteriously not made it in time (held hostage by PanAm because of those thieving gift-grabbers) we headed for London on more motor coaches, fortunately without gift shops...we were into our second day and the Station Master at the Brussels airport, a man by the name of Poirot (true) had come aboard the plane to tell my family that there had been some sort of official requests from London regarding our whereabouts and could he do anything...
My grandparents were all dead by the time I came along, so I have always been fascinated that my children could experience that thrill...Kingman (Grumpy) and Mary Louise (Granny Flip) were amazing people, the kind of grandparents who dreamed up outings that their grandchildren would actually enjoy...I miss them for all their kindnesses...and for their wonderful martinis!
UPDATE Hope the Obamas enjoyed Winfield House as much as we did!!