Sociological revelations aside, Liverpool offered some necessary comedic relief. As the end of the academic year appears on the horizon, I am attempting to truly, madly, deeply live in the moment. It may be contrary to my neurological wiring, but I am willing to defy biological norms to achieve a greater good– enjoying the now.
The first notable conversation was shared between the Vicar and myself, one Sunday morning after a church service that he was “disappointed” I did not attend. And this was after I mentioned Jesus was most definitely not my home boy. Let me tell you, I really wished I had been wearing my Urban Outfitters “Moses is my home boy” shirt at that moment in time:
VICAR: Yaffa, it’s so lovely to have you here. Johnny doesn’t bring girls to these parts often.
YAFFA: Really? In Oxford he always has a girl on his arm. PAUSE. Well, I mean in the totally platonic, buy you a McFlurry when your boyfriend breaks your heart sense.
VICAR: Clearly confused by the absurdity of my ramblings. So, Yaffa, how did you two meet?
YAFFA: Well, funny you should ask. We met in Starbucks, through a mutual friend. And you’ll never believe the first thing he said to me–
VICAR: Oh, no, what did he say?
YAFFA: Realizing now would be a good time to lie. No father wants to hear his son’s crude underpants jokes. Um, well, it was something like how New York I appeared, what with my grande skinny vanilla latte and black attire and all.
VICAR: Not too excited by my clearly falsified response. (Oh, I hope I don’t go to hell for lying to a man of G-d.) Well, let’s get down to business, shall we? What are your intentions with my son? In the long term, I mean?
YAFFA: Intentions? Um, definitely impure.
VICAR: Excuse me.
Yes, this was the moment I realized my New York sarcasm had been completely lost on the man. Luckily, Johnny’s brother –Paul– entered, and before the royal inquisition could proceed much further, dissipated the mounting tension.
The awkward turtle conversation was followed by a walking tour of Liverpool, of which I now present the Beatles montage:
1. The Hard Day’s Night Hotel, where for a meager £185 a night, you can enjoy the “Love Love Me Do” Suite, which is accompanied by two “Love Love Me Do” flutes (as take home gifts) and a champagne reception for you and that special someone. Or, if you happen to be married into the Bill Gates or Steve Jobs clan, you can stay in the John Lennon suite for £750 a night, which guarantees you an original piece of Beatles artwork and as much mineral water as your parched throat desires.
A slice of rock 'n' roll history.
2. The Cavern- the site of the first Beatles performance– located adjacent to the gay club district. What I appreciated about it was just how cavernous and uninviting it looked. I could envision a young John Lennon, drugged and fresh off his shift at a nearby hotel, plunge into the depths of this beatnik-like club and profess his passion in lyrical form.
Sober people excluded.
3. Mathew Street– one of the more famous Liverpool streets. It now is home to the Beatles Museum, which thanks to Johnny’s planning skills, I did not have the fortune to enter. Hence, I ogled from afar, as I have a tendency to do.
It makes me want to "Twist and Shout.
Sadly, there is not much more to the tour. Penny Lane turned out to be in a fairly grimy part of the city, where even the existence of a few notable barber shops could not redeem it. Strawberry Fields I opted to skip as I have my very own in Central Park– and despite the fact it may not have any actual strawberries, I didn’t want to contaminate my image of an area I have always taken great pride in. And the rest of the memorable sites– think birthplaces and such– were overlooked by my tour guide, who thought a ferry ride across the harbor to an area known as New Brighton would be preferable to indulging my childish obsession with British boy bands.
Ferry Boat Fever.
New Brighton, unlike Old Brighton, is not a gay haven, but rather a lovely little retirement area with stone-covered beaches. And it is where Johnny and his two housemates– Nick and Jun– decided to release their inner little boys, running freely along the shores while throwing jelly fish into the shallow waters beside us.
The image of the three men reliving their youth was quite meaningful to me. They moved in sync with one another, displaying a sort of brotherhood I have not noticed amongst women before. I could tell their impending separation from one another after graduation would be an adjustment for them all, and I was quite honored that I had been chosen to participate in one of their final excursions as housemates.
The Headington Boys.
We concluded the weekend with a trip to a senior citizen’s birthday party. Said senior has been like an aunt to Johnny, and despite her lack of filter, I grew to appreciate her honesty and cynicism. She and I seemed to form a fairly fast connection because at one point– the point at which the Vicar pulled me aside and asked if Johnny had been treating me “properly and lovingly”– she gave me the million dollar smirk. After I had responded in the least sardonic manner possible, she approached me and whispered, “You’d make an excellent actress on Broadway. Go home to New York and pursue show business, love.”
And with that I depart to finish an essay on the role of morality in legislation and legal application. After which I will depart for my final European city: Lisbon, where I hope to find my Portuguese prince charming. Ideally, he will whisk me away to one of the breathtaking castles lining the coast, and we will live happily ever after– in a lifetime supply of custard tarts sort of way.
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