Where: Docklands Fish & Chips
When: 2:31 p.m.
Drink: Diet Coke
I just got a pregnancy level craving for fish & chips.
I love gastronomy and the fancy stuff but you cannot beat thick, flaky, fresh-caught cod served with salt and vinegar.
Poor gluten-free Angie.
She’s a good enough pal to say “No, you go enjoy. I’ll go shop around a bit.”
So here I am with glazed eyes, greasy lips, and so many carbs floating in my system I feel HIGH. This is the English experience I remember from living here before: tucking into a corner alone. Eating and writing.
Connecting pen to paper was the only way my head ever made sense to me. Still is. Except now, sentences wake me up in the middle of the night.
But seriously (*squirrel!) would you look at this fish?!? This thing’s as long as my arm! And I’ve been away from England too long. I thought the mushy peas was guacamole.
I’m still suffering with some chest infection thingy. You can hear it my video up there. Christopher says it’s because I walked around with wet feet and bell bottoms upon arrival. (Converse Chuck Taylor’s aren’t waterproof, by the way.)
But I’m feeling marginally better today.
Angie channeled some divine healing powers and seriously saved my sick ass.
I could barely stand when we got home from the pub last night. My voice was completely gone and I had chills, sneezes, and shivers.
“Lay down, girl,” she sighed –tired but loyal– whipping out her little travel apothecary.
Girlfriend swirled a coconut and essential oil concoction in her palm then basically gave me a lymphatic massage. I moaned in relief while our hosts undoubtedly exchanged quizzical looks in the next room.
Whatever she did worked.
“Girl, you have some crazy trapped energy,” she told this morning. “I literally had to take deep breaths and widen my stance to stabilize while working on your palms! Then I was all lightheaded and buzzy and couldn’t sleep even though you’d passed out.”
All my stress and energy stores in my hands and feet. (Not sure what’s up with that.)
Anyway. Yeah. I passed the hell out. Slept like a corpse on tranquilizers. I know part of that is jet lag, but my body really needed rest. Still. I can’t be sleeping in on precious Beatle time!
So here I am, tempting pneumonia to ensure I’ve captured every morsel of this trip. Just in case you wanna know what Liverpool feels like in February:
Day Five, continued.
Where: Ziferblat, Albert Dock
When: 3:27 p.m.
Drink: Hot, milky tea
This place is rad, ya’ll.
Everything in here is FREE.
Comfy chairs, sofas, coffee tables, piano, games, blankets, wifi . . .
Coffee, tea, cereal, cake, cookies, muffins . . .
You just pay 8 pence (13 cents) a minute to be here. It’s clean, spacious, comfortable, and they’re playing Diana Ross. I got a bellyful of fish and am so happy I might burst — except it’s our last day.
I think we’ll hit the Tate Modern then go stock up on Beatle stuff. I’m gonna have one more cuppa tea and maybe another chocolate biscuit. I wanna ask everyone in here their favorite Beatle song, but Angie shot me a look that suggested maybe that wasn’t a good idea.
They have this awesome little thingy on the wall:
LOL!I need it all! 🙂
But eventually just settled on one.
Day Five, continued.
Where:The North Western Pub, Lime Street Station, Liverpool
When: 7:20 p.m.
Drink: Pint Bitburger
I’m sitting at the railway station, got a ticket for my destination.
The rock’n’roll rumor is that Paul Simon wrote Homeward Bound here at Lime Street Station and I’m just gonna say it one more time:
I FUCKING LOVE THIS CITY.
My mom gets mad when I cuss. But I do. I love it so much it commands the explicative. But they’d pronounce it ‘fooking’ here — with a hard K. Kinda like the steaming milk noise on a cappuchino machine.
Try it: fooKing.
*So, girls. What was the Beatle highlight of the trip?
Angie: “Riding around Woolton, Liverpool. Then John’s house at Mendips.”
Jennifer: “Learning Beatle history to a masterfully planned soundtrack. Like driving past the Penny Lane roundabout during *that* point in the song.” (Thanks again, Ian.)
Angie: “Definitely that night at Baltic Fleet. That’ll never be replicated.”
Jennifer: “I agree. That was magical. Thank God I got video. Oh and those delicious accents!”
Just listen how they pronounce ‘Liverpool’ *swoon*
Best Liverpudlian Dining Experience?
Angie: “The Lebanese one: Bakchich. Mowgli for atmosphere, though.”
Jennifer: “That’s tough. I’m gonna say Mowgli. But that fish today was off the hook, too.”
And which Beatle tune sums up your time in Liverpool? You know, encapsulates the experience?
Angie: “And I Love Her. No, wait. I changed my mind. Something.”
Jennifer: “Probably In My Life.”
I feel like writing a letter to the City. Not to the municipal body but Liverpool Herself. Like writing a letter to a lover professing everything you adore and how you wouldn’t be the same without them.
But mostly saying thank you.
Just writing that made my eyeballs burn.
A world without Beatle music would find me a deflated bag of skin, gasping for air on the floor.
Thank you, Liverpool.
On behalf of Beatle people everywhere, thank you.
Day Five, continued.
Where: Virgin Train, Coach B
When: 8:53 p.m
Drink: Pinot Grigio and Bottled Water
We’re quiet now.
Not much to say.
But the air’s full around us.
A world minus George and John
and the things you feel in silence.
We came to celebrate 40th birthdays, but leave like teenagers. Teary. Giddy. Tired from late nights celebrating cute boys in our favorite band.
We’ll be in London in an hour.
“Let’s make lists of our top ten Beatle songs,” I sniffed.
“Okay,” she sniffed back.
We only had one song in common: Two of Us.
A lifelong friend who understands your intricate weirdness and embraces it without question may be the most valuable thing in the whole world.
Thanks for reading.
Slap me with some stars.
And say– which tag would YOU have taken from the wall at Ziferblat?