"Liverpudlian" is just about the coolest word ever... much cooler than "Oxfordian"

It's very strange. You start a travel blog and think that you are writing to only three or four people. It is only when you stop writing for two weeks when readers start coming out of the woodwork and begin demanding more updates. I'm just happy that you are enjoying my posts! It's nice to know that there are so many of you (although a little intimidating).

To make this a bit more manageable, I'm splitting it up into two sections so that you can read it at your leisure.

LIVERPOOL

Two weeks ago, Francie and I went to Liverpool (if you need to ask why, I weep for you). I found a hostel in my guidebook about a half-hour away from the docks (where the Beatles stuff is) but read that the owner had seen the Beatles play in Liverpool before they got famous. That's all it took.

The train station was unremarkable except that it had four characteristics of the worst things about England:
-there were no trashcans. English people have an irrational fear of trashcans and will put them only in places where they are required. Most bathrooms don't even have them. True, the bathrooms all have air hand dryers, but what about other things you need to throw away? Getting in touch with my inner kindergartener, I just refused to be a litterbug and walked around for five minutes looking for a place to dispose of my coffee. I finally gave it to someone behind a counter to throw away.
-the bathrooms had nothing but air hand dryers. I wouldn't mind this so much if I didn't have to go out into the 40-degree weather with my hands still partly damp and feel them freeze in my pockets. Not a fun situation.
-you must pay to pee. WHY do you have to pay 20 pence (40 cents) to relieve your bladder? I felt like going on the floor just to spite them. Luckily, I was totally sober, so I paid like a good little girl.
-no drinking fountains. Do they WANT people to die of dehydration? No, they just want to charge you an arm and a leg for bottled water.

We got to our hostel and the owner talked our ear off for half-an-hour while serving us tea (when in Rome...). He had seen the Beatles play more than 200 times and had even talked to Paul. He even formed a band who placed third in a talent competition where the Beatles placed fifth. So he can brag that he was in a band better than the Beatles! The hostel was OK—the shower was kind of weird and you could tell the building was old—but one of the bunks had the lyrics of "Tomorrow Never Knows" inscribed on the wooden panels. Only in Liverpool!

On Saturday, we walked to the docks to go to the museum. The buildings were old and run-down, but they were decorated with cool paintings (one dog-themed one reminded me a little of Andy Warhol). On our way, we passed by Chinatown. It should be named "Chinavillage," since it was only about two blocks long. Apparently it has the tallest Chinese arch outside of China, given to the city by Beijing because it had the oldest Chinese population in all of Europe.

We got to the docks and had lunch at a crepe place before heading into the museum. The day we went was Strawberry Day, the 40th anniversary of "Strawberry Fields Forever/Penny Lane" being released. We got free stickers and pins (or "badges," the English word. The English cashiers joked, "You don't just get the pin—you get the whole badge!" and collapsed into laughter.) Of course, this didn't mean the fare was any cheaper (about 10 pounds a pop, or $20). Luckily, we got money off because of where we were staying/the fact that we were students, so it only cost about 12 pounds for the both of us. I think they know that tourists will pony up any amount for the Fab Four, which is sad but true.

The museum was kind of cheesy. You would walk into a room with papier mache stone walls and flashing neon signs and the audio device in your ear would say, "This is the famous club quarter in Hamburg..." and you would think, "Ummmmm... 'kay." There was so much memorabilia behind glass and even life-sized Beatles mannequins, which were a little freaky. Once you got into the psychedelic stage of their career (my favorite), they had a life-sized version of the "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" album cover and a yellow submarine with fish out the windows and a periscope. That was definitely my favorite room.

I was a little miffed because they had a whole white room for John Lennon with a white piano and another separate room with John Lennon's glasses that you could look through, but then only a tiny framed plaque on the exit door in honor of George Harrison's death. I know that John Lennon was assassinated and "taken in his prime" and all that, but geez, George deserved at least maybe half a room.

We then went crazy with the Beatles gift shop (as every sane human being would) and then walked around Albert Dock for a little bit, finally ending up in the Tate Modern museum. It was very small and manageable with impressive names like Roy Lichtenstein, Andy Warhol and others. And it was FREE! Anything in England that is free makes me basically want to bow down and worship its very existence.

That night, we went for Chinese food and proved to ourselves that English people just do not know how to make Chinese food. It's so tasteless (except for maybe the duck wraps). We then went clubbing to the Cavern Quarter, where the Beatles started out. There were millllllions of kids our age because of the three universities in the city. It was rather fun, although different to be in huge crowds of college-age kids. We got mixed drinks at a bar and walked around soaking in the atmosphere.

Many of my friends at York had teasingly warned me about people in this city. Liverpudlians are basically looked down upon by all of England. Everyone told me to "watch my wallet" and things like that, but I never once felt unsafe there. The only strange time was when we were walking and I all of a sudden felt someone slap my butt. I turned around quickly and a boy ran away with all of his friends pointing and laughing, saying, "He did it!" Not knowing what to say, I just said, "OK... just don't do it again." (WOW, I HAVE STELLAR FLIRTING SKILLS.) Another boy in the group said, "Don't worry—he just thinks you're gorrrrrgeous. You're twins, aren't you?"

Francie and I tried to figure out whether we preferred the normal English boy attitude of just being ignored or the Liverpudlian way of acting like a 13-year-old. I think the latter won, because at least it meant they noticed us!

On Sunday, we went on the Magical Mystery Tour (on a bus) with our new friend Lisa from the hostel. She was on month 6 of her 10-month backpacking tour alone (talk about my own personal hell). She told us that she had spent three months in Australia, one month in New Zealand, two months in Thailand and one month in Hong Kong. We could practically hear our dad screaming, "But there's no culture there!" but we bit our tongues.

The bus tour might have been the coolest thing we did the entire weekend, as it took us to Strawberry Fields, Penny Lane, the church field where Paul first met John (that, coincidentally, had a gravestone with "Eleanor Rigby" written on it) and all of the Beatles' first homes. The tour guide was a really fun guy with the strongest Liverpudlian accent I had heard, which made me giddy because it reminded me of Beatles songs. He even pointed out to us the different locations of the song "Penny Lane." The barber shop is now a haircutting salon and the shelter in the middle of the roundabout is a derelict building, etc. He even shed some light on some song lyrics (John used to play on the then-private lawns of Strawberry Fields and when his mother got upset, he said, "Don't worry, they're not going to hang me"... "There's nothing to get hung about.")

He also told us that the signs for Penny Lane were painted on the walls until about four months ago, when the city finally decided people could be trusted not to steal them. Of course, hundreds have been taken since then and the one we saw had only been there since that Friday. He told us that since the lane was right across from university dorms, students will steal them for their parents! Unfortunately, Francie and I weren't so crafty.

We had lunch at The Grapes, an old pub that was a hangout of the four where they used to sit outside the ladies' room and watch the girls come out. Lisa then bid us sayonara and we went to the Chinese New Year that they had that day. Francie and I were excited because we had slept through the real New Year's (jetlag sucks) and we saw this as our "do-over" New Year's. We then took a quick jaunt around the huuuuge Anglican cathedral and lit candles for our dad's mom. We talked to a boy who lived at the hostel as we packed up who told us about being in the Royal Navy (two boys in one weekend? I need to live in Liverpool.)

OXFORD

The next weekend, I went to see Francie in Oxford. We had planned this trip well in advance because our friend Elizabeth (an old family friend, our dads went to preschool together and we see their family every summer on vacation) was studying abroad in Spain and was visiting her friend who's studying abroad in Oxford. Both F and she met me at the train station, which was exciting (and not just because I was glad to be free of the three-and-a-half-hour train ride where people were actually standing in the aisles). We had an Italian dinner and then went on a pub crawl around the area, finishing at the Eagle and Child, where J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis drank (which Francie reminded me about around 27 times). The first bar we went to even supposedly had a witch's broom found in one of the upstairs rooms, which was exciting.

It was so fun to introduce Liz to the pub culture—recommend our favorites (Strongbow and Guinness), find cozy corners to snuggle into, help her sort out change (I recognize the small change! I've truly assimilated!... not). Liz almost began talking to the bartenders in Spanish, which I found very amusing. She ordered a winter version of a Pimm's cup, which I had never seen before because I've always been in England during the summer.

We then met up with her friends Doug and Akriti and went to a random, pretty lame bar called Que Pasa. We heard all the cool music as we lined up to get inside and then, as soon as we got in there, they played nothing but random techno. There were only about 30 people in the club and a few 40-year-olds, which would have been funny if I wasn't so scared of ending up like them. All of the gay guys danced with the girls, so the guy-girl ratio was evened out a little bit in the end.

On Saturday, we went to high tea with Liz at one of the fanciest restaurants in town. It was so delicious, especially the scones and clotted cream (my mouth waters as I write this). It was even better because I have been losing weight recently so I could eat it without a smidge of guilt (OK, maybe a smidge). I also had lots of milk and sugar in my tea, which all of the English people cry over and insists ruins it, but sometimes I enjoy being an ugly American just to tease them.

We went on a shopping spree where I found bird earrings (I am obsessed with birds, so this was like discovering the Messiah... kind of) and went to evensong at the Brasenose church after Francie showed me around the college a little bit. Evensong is a shorter church service on Monday evenings where there is a lot of singing and the whole choir comes. Being heathen Neukoms, we didn't know any of the songs, but church hymns aren't exactly hard to figure out when the organ plays the tune before you even start singing. We said "amen" to their prayer of god saving the queen, which was a new experience!

After evensong, we went to Formal Hall dressed up (the Oxford kids just wear their academic robes/cape things). The meat was overcooked (typical) and there was a huge Yorkshire pudding (again, typical), but they broke new ground because there was actually vegetables! When I saw it, I silently hallelujahed as I loaded about four ladlefuls onto my plate (luckily, everyone else had already helped themselves). I had never enjoyed broccoli so much.

Francie's friend Harry came to meet me next, which was amusing because he seemed very nervous (and, as you know, I am about the least nerve-wracking person ever). He invited us to a really fun concert, which was this opera lady singing but she was very dramatic and explained each song (in German and French) to us, including one about a violet who hopes to get picked but is eventually stepped on, and another about a woman who tells her lover that she is sick of the him and his laugh sounds worse than the braying of a donkey. She also convincingly acted out a drunk woman in a Hungarian bar who is hitting on the violin player. It was amazing.

The teachers had a reception in the faculty lounge for after-dinner snacks and drinks. Francie and I watched this cartoon when we were little called "Recess" about a group of fourth-graders and their adventures during their free time. In one episode, they wonder what the teacher's lounge is like, and the scene cuts to masseuses and candlelit tables with teachers ordering lobster tails and wine. This made us laugh so much, because (at least at Country Day) the faculty lounge is no more than a large table, a few plastic chairs and some old coffee.

Here, though, I could imagine the teachers actually being able to order filet mignon. "Elaborate" is an understatement. There was beatiful mahogany wood paneling, 400-year-old oil paintings, Oriental rugs... the works. Plates were filled with amazing fruit, truffles and even Turkish delight (of "Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe" fame). They had all-you-can-drink champagne, wine and port, which the teachers kept pushing on us the minute we finished our glass (so different from America, I could barely smother my laughter). In the end, I discovered how much I like port (like red wine, but not bitter! A little like plum juice) and Harry and I got a little tipsy on it. Harry was so much easier to talk to with a little liquid courage, and he even recited the entirety of "Kubla Khan" (after about four glasses of port, mind you). He was so fascinating to talk to.

At about midnight, it was only the three of us and the president and some other important lady, and we talked to them about the history of the paintings. Finally, the president asked us what colleges we went to in America. Stanford, oh yes, all well and good. I stood there. "Um, I go to this tiny school called Occidental..." He broke in with a "Is that in LA?"

My jaw hit the ground. No one, I mean NO ONE in England knows about Oxy. Heck, even in CA, it's hard to come by someone outside the Valley who knows about it. In England, it's just, "What a weird name! Did you get in there ACCIDENTALLY??" and me trying to refrain from kneeing them in the crotch. I was so flustered all I could say was, "How did you KNOW??" and he said that he had lived for California for five years. But... still! It impressed me so much. President of possibly the most well-known, prestigious, richest universities in the world? Eh. Knows about Oxy? Whoaaaaa (stares in awe)!!!

Sunday was more teas and shopping and then I headed home, luckily on a less-crowded train. I have grown to love the York train station and I feel like I am coming home every time I arrive. It's a very wonderful feeling. The other day, I started crying about Oxy, missing everyone there. The revolutionary thing about this time, though, was that it wasn't that I didn't want to be at York, but rather that I wanted all of my California friends here so I could see them. I didn't want to leave York, but rather I just missed my old home while being content with my new one. And that has to count for something.