This is so depressing.
Where: La Madeline, Houston, Texas.
When: 10:22 a.m.
Drink: Bold French Roast, half & half, 2 packets raw sugar
I’m so in denial.
Packing up to drive home this morning, I couldn’t bare the thought of it being over. IT being our trip to Liverpool.
Must it be over?
Can’t let go.
Gotta squeeze out all the Beatlejuice.
All of it.
“Wanna do one last breakfast?” I asked Angie, who got yanked back to reality so fast it was almost cruel.
Poor girl was making snacks for a whimpering toddler within 1 minute of dropping her suitcase. I’m not even kidding. Of course she wanted one last breakfast.
Our plane arrived late last night. I was almost stupid enough to drive 3 hours back to San Marcos. Her kids’ excitement at having Mommy home made me long for my own family. But I hit a brick wall—a lethal combo of virus, jet lag, and drain-circling adrenaline. All that plus night-blindness.
Driving home would’ve been a catastrophic mistake.
Instead I lay in bed, drunk on Thera Flu, insides swaying like gently rolling waves though I lay completely still.
Then I lost conscience.
I didn’t even write yesterday. My last day in England. No Beatle Day Six. Technically it wasn’t a Beatle day. I reunited with friends and family and flitted around Kensington buying toiletries and $70 hot dog meals.
“You can get that stuff on Amazon.” Angie munched her bacon.
“It’s not the same.” I sipped coffee, slopping extra Hollendaise on my eggs.
I also got to spend time with my stepdaughter Keri (whom I don’t see enough), and Neil, one of my favorite friends I made whilst waiting tables in London.
We met at this funky, hidden West End bar cleverly (and effectively) disguised as a WWII bunker.
After finally finding the door, we had to pass a super awkward inspection to actually get in.
The doorman– decked in 40s attire- lifted a gloved palm in WAIT — not until I say — then lifted an old school phone receiver (the kind with a cord you can slam down proper if needed) then roll-dialed a number.
Angie, Keri, and I looked at each other like really? Did Neil forget to tell us the secret password?
The doorman eyed us up and down. Not pervy. Inspecting. Nodding into the phone. Answering mystery questions in codes we couldn’t decipher.
I felt stupid.
I mean seriously.
Here I am with no make-up. Croaky ass voice. Feeling like a deep-fried turd. Not dressed in any way suggesting I’d liven their vibe. Ugh I felt like Dork Mom trying to get into the cool party.
Then Neil breezed up gay and fabulous. Precious lovely Neil, whom I haven’t seen in 15 freaking years.
His phone call inspection didn’t take as long.
“We’re with him.” We shuffled in behind.
Minutes later –deep underground– an uninteligible Polish waitress with matte red lips handed us ration cards and served –I’ll give it to ’em– amazing cocktails.
But Neil describes it best:
We shared germs, laughs, theatre gossip, and basically didn’t skip a beat. Years and years and YEARS have passed, but Neil’s and my heart still beat in tandem.
Writing this, I realize the people I love I tend to love forever. (Sorry I got you sick, Poohbear.)
The only thing worse than good-bye is packing.
Yesterday we boarded our plane, both of us quiet.
Parts of us forever lost to the deep grey waters of the river Mersey.
It was almost the perfect trip.
An unpleasant exchange with a flight attendant on the way home unfortunately bookended this trip with an incident that –quite frankly– makes me a little sad.
I was going to give it a few sentences in this entry (nothing too deep so as not to taint my Beatle log) but was later tacitly threatened not to write about it at all.
Which now means it’s getting a dedicated blog entry.
Censorship is loser and SO ARE BULLIES.
Do not EVER tell me not to write.
See, I wanted to use a strong F word up there in that last sentence. Either after the ‘EVER’ or before the ‘write.’ But my mom’s had a rough week and I don’t want to compound her distress by thinking she raised a trashy potty mouth.
So it begins again. I’ll throw nickles, dimes, tens and twenties into an opaque jar to save for my next trip. (Never use something see-thru to save money because you’ll obsess about the contents every time you see it.)
“I’d go back to Liverpool right now,” chewed Angie. “This very second.”
“Totally,” I agreed. “We could do laundry when we got there.”
I also think I need a travel writing job with heavy emphasis on food, ghosts, and Paul McCartney. Universe, please can you hook that up?
Check it out:
Angie’s 7-year-old gave her homework this trip. Can you believe that?! A writing assignment! But she complied. And I love what she wrote:
What’s It About?
This trip was about getting to realize a lifetime dream (to) visit a very special place to me. And I was lucky enough to share it with a very special person. With this trip I got to meet new people and make new friends and fall in love with a lovely place all the way across the pond called Liverpool. The people of Liverpool were all warm and friendly and it reminds me of the message that Beatles music is all about.
All You Need Is Love!
Love IS what it’s all about at the end of the day. Love yourself, love your family, and love your neighbor. We are all here on earth for a short time but our love for each other is eternal.
Don’t be afraid to fight for it. Or ashamed to defend it. You are never wrong to show how much you love something that is a part of who you are. Be love and be loved. Love is all you need.
Nice, Ang. ❤
Guess I’ll pour a to-go cup and drive home to our busted boiler and that stupid letter from the IRS stating I owe $127 even though my CPA swears I don’t.
I just hugged my bestie goodbye, so the Beatle log ends here.
I can’t avoid it anymore.
It’s sunny out there.
I got a bellyful of caffeine and a playlist full of–
Thank ya’ll for rolling up for our Magical Mystery Tour.
We’ll now return to our regularly scheduled program of ghosts, books, and psychic phenomena. If you’d like email notifications when I publish new entries, you can sign up there on the right.
Peace and love to you, always.