A lot of factors seemed to be drawing me to Liverpool before I finally gave in and booked my flight. There’s the fact that it’s the home of George, John, Paul and Ringo, creators of the music I’ve been raised on – and I really mean raised on. My mother’s been playing Beatles songs and singing them to me since I could hold memories. The group is literally such a big deal with my grand, Irish-Catholic powerhouse of a family that at almost all get-togethers, and especially at weddings, we gather round in a giant, swaying circle and shout the lyrics to “Rocky Racoon” from the bottom of our beer-filled bellies.
There’s also the fact that I happen to have one of my oldest and greatest friends living there right now, ready to offer me a place to stay and good company for the entire weekend. As I was debating buying a ticket I started to get wind of all the Beatlemania going on back in the states as well, sparked I believe by the release of Rock Band: The Beatles Edition. All the albums were being re-released as special re-mastered or anniversary editions or something or other. I got on to Pitchfork and saw that they had had the audacity to review these re-releases, giving every single one of them 10’s I think, but still, what the hell Pitchfork. I got on Facebook and saw that my closest friends from school were having a Beatlemania party, which I was very jealous of. Anyway between my family obligations, all this hype, and the fact that the one and only Molly Boyd was there, it seemed the planets had aligned – I was going.
Easy jet is not the classiest company to fly with; in fact, it’s not even PBR classy, which is cheap but nostalgic and vaguely hip and so somehow superior to other cheap brews. Easy jet is just cheap. So naturally, when you board the plane, you can sit wherever you want. I passed several aisles until seeing a good window seat next to a woman in her 50’s or 60’s and took it. Sitting next to this woman ended up being one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. As she got up to let me in I could see immediately how nervous she was about the flight. Her movements were terse, sudden, and a bit shaky. She wore little hiking shoes, jeans, and a nice white blouse, along with tons of bracelets and other jewelry. She had heavy make-up, and hair that would be grey but was instead dyed purplish-red. Her hands shook a bit as she reached into her bag to grab her pearl white rosary and ran her fingers through a few Hail Mary’s. I felt quite bad for her. Soon she spoke: “Sorry …. I get a bit nervous,” she said. I think I commented that “it was nothing to worry about.” I then commented on here rosary, and showed her the small St. Christopher necklace I had around my neck. She smiled and calmed down a bit. I told her about my life and my travels and what I was doing in Spain.
Apparently her pre-flight jitters were all pre-flight, because as soon we got off the ground and leveled out she was visibly much more collected. She offered me a Mentos, I took it. Five minutes later she gave me the rest of the package and wouldn’t let me say no. Five minutes after that, she handed me another package, this containing halls menthols. “It’s another kind of mint,” she said. Once again, I couldn’t say no. It got better from there. As the flight attendants began rolling their carts down the aisle, she began insisting that she buy me something to drink and eat (you have to pay for this stuff on Easy Jet, because you already saved a shit-ton of money on your ticket, and they need to stiff you any other way they can). I told her I guess I’d have some tea, but I didn’t need any food. She got my English breakfast tea and also ordered a can of Pringles and a Kit-Kat bar. She opened the Pringles, ate one of them, and then handed me the rest of the can. “I know you want to eat,” she said. “I have sons.” She then handed me the Kit-Kat, too. Each time, saying no was not an option. After landing and going through customs (the immigration officer had quite a few prying questions to ask about this “Molly Boyd” I was coming to visit), I ran into my stranger-turned-benefactor one more time. It had been a rather late flight, as it was now about 1:30 in the morning. She asked how I was getting to my friend’s place, and I said I’d be taking a bus. “Do you have enough money?” she said. “Yes, I do,” I told her as firmly as I could. She looked at me with a very concerned face, stuttered, and then shoved a folded up note of 20 pounds into my hand, which I had not seen her holding. At first speechless, I then simply shouted "thank you so much!" as she walked away. Thank you, you British angel you.....
Easy jet is not the classiest company to fly with; in fact, it’s not even PBR classy, which is cheap but nostalgic and vaguely hip and so somehow superior to other cheap brews. Easy jet is just cheap. So naturally, when you board the plane, you can sit wherever you want. I passed several aisles until seeing a good window seat next to a woman in her 50’s or 60’s and took it. Sitting next to this woman ended up being one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. As she got up to let me in I could see immediately how nervous she was about the flight. Her movements were terse, sudden, and a bit shaky. She wore little hiking shoes, jeans, and a nice white blouse, along with tons of bracelets and other jewelry. She had heavy make-up, and hair that would be grey but was instead dyed purplish-red. Her hands shook a bit as she reached into her bag to grab her pearl white rosary and ran her fingers through a few Hail Mary’s. I felt quite bad for her. Soon she spoke: “Sorry …. I get a bit nervous,” she said. I think I commented that “it was nothing to worry about.” I then commented on here rosary, and showed her the small St. Christopher necklace I had around my neck. She smiled and calmed down a bit. I told her about my life and my travels and what I was doing in Spain.
Apparently her pre-flight jitters were all pre-flight, because as soon we got off the ground and leveled out she was visibly much more collected. She offered me a Mentos, I took it. Five minutes later she gave me the rest of the package and wouldn’t let me say no. Five minutes after that, she handed me another package, this containing halls menthols. “It’s another kind of mint,” she said. Once again, I couldn’t say no. It got better from there. As the flight attendants began rolling their carts down the aisle, she began insisting that she buy me something to drink and eat (you have to pay for this stuff on Easy Jet, because you already saved a shit-ton of money on your ticket, and they need to stiff you any other way they can). I told her I guess I’d have some tea, but I didn’t need any food. She got my English breakfast tea and also ordered a can of Pringles and a Kit-Kat bar. She opened the Pringles, ate one of them, and then handed me the rest of the can. “I know you want to eat,” she said. “I have sons.” She then handed me the Kit-Kat, too. Each time, saying no was not an option. After landing and going through customs (the immigration officer had quite a few prying questions to ask about this “Molly Boyd” I was coming to visit), I ran into my stranger-turned-benefactor one more time. It had been a rather late flight, as it was now about 1:30 in the morning. She asked how I was getting to my friend’s place, and I said I’d be taking a bus. “Do you have enough money?” she said. “Yes, I do,” I told her as firmly as I could. She looked at me with a very concerned face, stuttered, and then shoved a folded up note of 20 pounds into my hand, which I had not seen her holding. At first speechless, I then simply shouted "thank you so much!" as she walked away. Thank you, you British angel you.....
Day one started off strong, and we began a bit of a day drunk in the early afternoon. It seemed I had brought a bit of the Spanish sun with me, as Molly and Constant commented that it was unusually nice weather for Liverpool. The sun was out, and the great white English clouds sat row after row above the buildings, looking slow and officious. Beer one was at the famous Cain’s brewery close to Constant’s neighborhood. The building was impressive – a red bricked building with a tall, almost church like tower that can be seen from miles away. Molly, of course, got a whisky and soda while Constant and I tried out their “Formidable Ale.” It was a bit like an IPA but sweeter and very, very smooth. Delicious. See it in all it's formidableness below...
Beer two was at a campus bar near Liverpool University. Another ale for Constant and I and another mixed drink for Molly. Our last stop for the afternoon was a “tequila bar,” where you could get shots for only a quid. The walls were lined with every flavor imaginable of tequila, which was fine with me, because the stuff straight up doesn’t usually sit well with me. For round one I tried “black currant” and for round two “Irn-Bru,” a popular soda in the UK from Scotland. By the end of this we were more than sufficiently “pissed,” as they charmingly refer to it, for the sun to still be up. However, this did not stop Constant from making a risotto when we got back to his place, and a damn good one at that. It consisted of Asparagus and red and orange peppers wrapped in bacon and drizzled with olive oil, and then some rice cooked to perfection. Although he said it was “so easy,” I couldn’t have made it, and so was impressed as well as grateful. As time rolled by at the apartment, Constant got sleepier and sleepier while Molly and I got more and more restless. Eventually he decided to just call it a night and let Molly and I have our own fun for the night. Understandable…Alas, he had had class that morning and Molly I had done, well, jack. Not much needs to be mentioned about our night; we did exactly what you would imagine two Irish, former Catholic grade school classmates who haven’t seen each other in almost a year or more, would do. Ales were drank, I think a little dancing to James Brown happened, and at one point, as I was getting a bit confused with the currency, I spilled something like 20 quid in coins all over the bar and just had the bartender take whatever the pint of Estrella Damn had cost, hurriedly shoving the rest back into my pockets. We had a fantastic night, but embarrassingly enough for me, it ended in incessant hiccups which I could not control. That was the sign it was time to go home I guess.
When I woke up and finally checked out pictures from the night the next day, I had to laugh out loud. I had attempted to take several pictures of the Liverpool skyline at night from Albert Dock on the way home, and each one was blurred beyond recognition. I suddenly recalled getting the shot focused, holding the camera still, pressing the shutter and then violently hiccuping right before each picture took. Twas quite frustrating. Here is the hilarious result:
We got moving and checked out the Liverpool World Museum. After the aquarium and bugs/fossils, Constant and Molly opted to check out the space/galaxies exhibit, while I went to the Ancient Egyptian one (far superior). We saw this as an analagy for our takes on life: Constant prefers to peer into the wonders of the future and the infinite universe while I prefer to gain wisdom from the past. Anyway, ancient Egypt is cool, but standing in place to read exhibits while you’re achy, sweaty, and have a headache is not. Pretty soon we met back up in the lobby to head back to the docks/Constant’s apartment to rest up.
Saturday night was the big house/techno show at Chibuku, a very hip club in Liverpool with at least three stages of dance music on different floors. Earlier in the week Molly had miraculously bought the last three tickets for the show, and we were all pretty pumped to go. Shows like this are, for me anyway, a bit interesting. I can get into it, but not nearly as much as all the people around who are blasting off on rollers and uppers and whatever else, like the girl I met from Essex who insisted that a spider had been “dub step dancing” on her head, and warned me to watch out for it. Anyway we danced/sweat our hearts out for hours. I’ve been to big name dance shows like Daft Punk and Justice, and I’d say the quality of this one was somewhere between those and the discoteca I foolishly blew some money on in Granada. The headliner, Simian Mobile Disco, was pretty good, but I was a lot more impressed by the set before them, done by a group called Fake Blood. I had a great time, but didn’t notice any dub-stepping spiders in my hair.
Sunday morning brought about a truly exciting event, something we had literally been planning all weekend, a full, traditional English breakfast. Our limbs exhausted from walking around and dancing all the previous day, we sat down to fried eggs, bacon, sausage, baked beans, blueberry muffins, rye toast with butter, and even some store bought mince meat pies, which I ate but Molly and Constant passed on. After breakfast, we all went into food comas and slept for another few hours – a perfect Sunday. From here on out the weekend was way more laid back. We checked out more museums (they’re all free in the UK!) and saw a movie, Zombieland, which was all right, but certainly no Shawn of the Dead. I think the movie would have been a total bust if not for Bill Murray’s excellent cameo. The man could save any movie. I arrived at John Lennon Airport for my Monday evening flight to Malaga feeling like I had only just gotten there. I didn’t meet any charming British ladies on my flight who wanted to offer me tea and chocolate and money, but I guess that kind of good fortune only happens once in a lifetime, if at all. The weekend had been “well -good,” “mint,” “proper,” and all the other ways the charming folks of Liverpool have for saying a good time.
Saturday night was the big house/techno show at Chibuku, a very hip club in Liverpool with at least three stages of dance music on different floors. Earlier in the week Molly had miraculously bought the last three tickets for the show, and we were all pretty pumped to go. Shows like this are, for me anyway, a bit interesting. I can get into it, but not nearly as much as all the people around who are blasting off on rollers and uppers and whatever else, like the girl I met from Essex who insisted that a spider had been “dub step dancing” on her head, and warned me to watch out for it. Anyway we danced/sweat our hearts out for hours. I’ve been to big name dance shows like Daft Punk and Justice, and I’d say the quality of this one was somewhere between those and the discoteca I foolishly blew some money on in Granada. The headliner, Simian Mobile Disco, was pretty good, but I was a lot more impressed by the set before them, done by a group called Fake Blood. I had a great time, but didn’t notice any dub-stepping spiders in my hair.
Sunday morning brought about a truly exciting event, something we had literally been planning all weekend, a full, traditional English breakfast. Our limbs exhausted from walking around and dancing all the previous day, we sat down to fried eggs, bacon, sausage, baked beans, blueberry muffins, rye toast with butter, and even some store bought mince meat pies, which I ate but Molly and Constant passed on. After breakfast, we all went into food comas and slept for another few hours – a perfect Sunday. From here on out the weekend was way more laid back. We checked out more museums (they’re all free in the UK!) and saw a movie, Zombieland, which was all right, but certainly no Shawn of the Dead. I think the movie would have been a total bust if not for Bill Murray’s excellent cameo. The man could save any movie. I arrived at John Lennon Airport for my Monday evening flight to Malaga feeling like I had only just gotten there. I didn’t meet any charming British ladies on my flight who wanted to offer me tea and chocolate and money, but I guess that kind of good fortune only happens once in a lifetime, if at all. The weekend had been “well -good,” “mint,” “proper,” and all the other ways the charming folks of Liverpool have for saying a good time.
No comments:
Post a Comment