Day Tripper: A Beatlemaniac in Liverpool Day TWO.

Hardcore Beatlelove.

Day TWO.


Where: The Cavern Pub
When: 6:56 p.m.
Drink: Heineken

Finally here! Arrived by train to a rainy, temperate Liverpool. By temperate I mean 50 degrees Fahrenheit. Someone please remind me not to wear bell bottoms in inclement weather. By the time we walked to our flat, I’d soaked water up to my damn knees.

I’m so grateful to be here right now absorbing everything Beatle with Angie. Liverpool is especially awesome because it’s a little Mecca of Beatle happy nestled in my very favorite country. Like a dollop of cream on my favorite cake.

We got a fab start yesterday, stopping traffic at Abbey Road within 3 hours of passport control. That, my friends, is dedication.


My old pal and ex-boss Thom bought markers for us to sign the wall at Abbey Road Studios (as you do) then led us on a quiet, respectful stroll thru The Beatles’ old stomping grounds in St. John’s Wood.


Angie said she was dressed like Run DMC.

Somehow, someway, we managed a normal bedtime and woke to Thom packing a 5 Star lunch for our train journey to Liverpool. Brie, Camembert, Stilton, crackers, 3 kinds of hummus, gin, tonic, Cosmopolitans, fresh mango cubes, pomegranate seeds, carrot cake, organic juice, cabernet AND pinot grigio, neatly arranged WITH an ice pack. I think there were olives in there, too. (You can take the man out of the service industry . . .)


The girls next to us on the train tried not to look jealous but they failed.


Two hours til Liverpool.
Was I excited?


I really can’t explain what it feels like (for me) to be in England. My soul exhales when I’m here. Just here. In this English air. In this English rain.

Yesterday on the London Underground, I felt I was back in the cradle. So comfortable. So familiar. Rocking back and forth in Mummy’s arms.

It’s a cruel irony being married to an Englishman who doesn’t want to live in England. What kinda b.s. is that. I suppose if you’re a badass mural artist with a waiting list you stay where you are. But still.



We’re in the Cavern Pub right now under dark lights, drinking beer and prosecco, and the band just started playing The Ballad of John and Yoko !

“Oooh you’re gonna have to drag me outta here,” Angie warned.

My real life smiley face is SO big. 🙂 My heart so full.

Beatle music
cold beer
and bestie
is pretty much an orgasmic combo.


Our Airbnb home away from home is Across the Universe (kidding) across the street from the Albert Dock. A Fab Four Taxi is picking us up tomorrow for a private tour of the Beatles’ childhood homes, Penny Lane, Eleanor Rigby’s grave, Strawberry Fields, The Casbah, and every other relevant spot. I’d say about 90% of people we tell our agenda to have secretly judged us.

God Bless Thom who may’ve secretly judged us, but took us to Abbey Road anyway. I think he feels guilty for not scheduling me to work the night Paul came to the Texas Embassy. (Kidding, Thom, you know I love you.)

7:39 p.m.

I just scored us a table right in front of the band! Wheee! Oooohhhh. Queen cover. Tonight does NOT suck.

7:50 p.m.

Here’s something I love about England: People mix here. There aren’t a bunch of trendy, gentrified bars so much as PUBS where people just go and hang to enjoy life (and beer). I love sharing time and space with humans of all variety. Truly. Though mingling with the older folk tends to be my favorite.

Things that do not suck:

*best friends
*Beatles music
*best seat in the house and people dancing in front of me


Time for dinner. Someone recommended Leaf on Bold Street.

Day Two, continued.

Where: The Cavern Club
When: 11:32 p.m.
Drink: Pinot Grigio

Okay, Leaf was yummy.


Walking back from dinner, we passed a GIANT portrait of the Beatles.

“You know you’re in Liverpool when . . . ” I pointed. Not that she could miss it.

“Let’s get a pic!,” smiled Angie.

But we had to wait for someone to walk by. A few minutes later, two heavily pierced, Mohawked biker dudes walked by.

“Excuse me,” I called. “Would you mind taking our pic, please?”

One nodded and took my phone. Angie and I backed up and did Charlie’s Angels poses in front of the portrait.

“Thanks!,” I said, taking my camera, examining his shot. “Hey!” I frowned, looking at a close up of me and Angie’s goofball faces. “You didn’t get the Beatles!”

“What do you want a picture with them c*nts for?”

Believe it or not, he said this sentence with a smile.

“Oh, no,” I replied. “You may not take our picture.”

I handed my phone to his friend, who snapped THIS pic:


We said thanks and trailed 20 feet behind them toward Mathew Street. The backs of their black leather jackets said Hell’s Angels England.

15 minutes later, we approached a little queue outside the Cavern Club– the famous basement cellar club located at 10 Mathew St.

Music thumped deep underground.

“What type of band’s down there tonight?” I asked the bouncer. Bald, earring, trench coat. You know the type.

“Just your sort, I think,” he smiled, nodding at my fuzzy yellow cap.

People handed 5 pound notes to a man in a booth in front of us. I wasn’t expecting a cover, but whatever. I dug out my wallet.

“Don’t charge them,” a male voice growled. The request was subtle. Not loud.

Angie and I squinted at a dark corner. And WHO should it be?! Meany biker man!

“Any friend of Brian’s doesn’t pay.” The bouncer winked, waiving us through. “Have a good night, girls” (pronounced gulls).

And now we’re listening to a band jam out The Who.

Things that do not suck:

* Turning 40 and still getting in for free.
* Liverpudlian accents. I don’t care what anyone says. They’re sexy.

12:36 a.m.

Why the bleep are people next to us drinking Coors Light!?!

Can’t wait til tomorrow. ❤

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