Day Three: You’ll Never Walk Alone Edition
March 10, 2013
9:43 a.m.
A morning stroll five minutes from where we are walking to visit Goodison Park, home of Liverpool’s cross-town rival Everton.
10:00 a.m.-ish
In convenience store a woman asking the man she was with whether Liverpool played a game today. He responds, “Ye, playin spurs at Anfield,” in a huge scouse accent.
10:45 a.m.
Jake and I head to downtown Liverpool to explore, get breakfast and stumble across The Cavern, the famous club of the Beatles.
11:38 a.m.
On the bus from downtown to Anfield. Excited. Nervous. Shit shit shit, Gareth Bale is mighty quick.
12:44 p.m.
On our second pint at The Sandon, a nice pub in the shadows of Anfield, everybody there is a supporter of Liverpool and is just hanging out drinking. The crowd is extremely male. 3 hours 15 minutes until kickoff. We are meeting John, our Internet acquaintance and self-proclaimed trusty ticket salesman, at 2:30.
2:15 p.m.
We finish up at the Pub and grab a steak and potato pie at Georgie Porgie’s Pudding and Pie’s. We take our spot at Turnstile E and wait for John. It is cold and windy. Bobbies on horses patrol the area. John says he will be here in twenty minutes. We are excited, but nervous.
3:20 p.m.
Our phone calls, texts, and tweets not returned. We realized John wasn’t coming. Screwed by John. I am at the verge of tears. I can not believe I dragged Jake thousands to come to a Liverpool game only to end up standing outside the stadium with no tickets. I feel personally betrayed by a fellow Liverpool fan and am ready to swear off my allegiance.
The walk back to The Sandon is miserable. I am crushed. Jake is asking for spares from anybody who will listen. Everybody laughs at him. I am too crushed to ask anybody. We get to The Sandon and I can barely walk anymore. So much for the motto of Liverpool: You’ll Never Walk Alone. John has completely abandoned a fellow supporter.
3:30 p.m.
We head to the bathroom. Jake is three people in front of me. I turn to the guy next to me, standing at the door: “You going to the match?”
“Yea of course. You?”
“No. We were meeting a guy with tickets for us, and we just got screwed. All the way from fucking America for this.”
(Jake notes that I shouted this. I thought it was a more private conversation.)
I meet Jake outside the bathroom and we are gonna head to further drown our sorrows and watch the game on TV. A man taps me on the shoulder. “Did you just say you didn’t have a ticket?”
“Yea, me and my brother. We need two though!”
“These guys have two,” he says turning and pointing at two guys to our right.
“Yea we got two, best seats in the house. Come with us.”
I nearly kissed a man. I wrapped my arms around him, which offset up him a touch, but I figured if I let him out of my sight, we wouldn’t get the tickets. My feet didn’t touch the ground during our walk back to Anfield.
Our savior didn’t care that we were Americans and made no attempt to rip us off. Our red scarves and breath that reeked of pie and beer was all he needed to accept us as REAL fans.
We will be sitting in the Kop end, the world famous stand for Liverpool supporters. A place Jake and I have dreamed about sitting.
As soon as we are in the stadium, Jake turns to me and we both shout, “Holy shit!” and jump into a big embrace. We went from screwed and freezing, to in the Kop in under 20 minutes. Of course, we buy the first round of beer for our two new scouser buddies. They then lead us up into the Kop as the public address announcer introduces the squads. Following each Liverpool players name the crowd lets out a giant “YEEEEAAAA!” This is Anfield.
3:57 p.m.
You’ll Never Walk Alone begins and every fan sings along with the famous Liverpool anthem. Jake and I have made it.
4:00 p.m.
The game kicks off.
21 minutes into the matchGOALLLLLLL!!!! Luis Suarez scores!!!
31 minutes into the match
The Kop begins to sing: “We’re gonna have a party, we’re gonna have a party, we’re gonna have a party…when Maggie Thatcher Dies! When Maggie Thatcher Dies! When Maggie Thatcher Dies!” (Really. I couldn’t have made that up.)
Half Time
Liverpool 1-Spurs 1. An even game, Liverpool playing solid, we are happy.
Full Time
LFC 3 Spurs 2
Oh. My. Word. The last two goals for Liverpool scored right in front of us. Steven Gerrard slamming home the winning penalty.
6:18 p.m.
Walking out of match I spot a man with a Jordanian kafia. I stop him and he is surprised a white guy is speaking Arabic and I find he is a Palestinian from Nablus. I mention that his kafia is Jordanian and in true Arab style he tries to give it to me telling me it is very cold.
6:20 p.m.
Another stake and potato pie at Gorgie Porgie’s before heading back to The Sandon to celebrate.
8:15 p.m.
We walk over to other pubs around the ground on our way back to the hostel. We head into the famous Arkles pub and meet some Irish supporters. A short one with a thick accent has struck up a conversation. I say to Jake: “Be careful. You don’t get to be that small in Ireland without being able to kill somebody with your bear hands.”
He asks me about drinking in America, I tell him I don’t know too much, I only turned 21 the previous day.“Fuck me, Twenty-one?!? Darren how old you think he is?” short Irish man says.
“Say about 26,” says Daren.
“Nah. Twenty-one,” short Irish guy.
“What are they feeding them in America?”
Part Four: Small World Edition
March 11, 2013
9:35 a.m.
On train the train back to London we realize that neither of us have had a vegetable or a non-alcoholic beverage in almost two days.
9:53 a.m.
Jake: “Did I tell you my Joe Biden dream?”
10:49 a.m.
On train pass through crazy area of snow and fog like weather, then sunshine, then back to snow and fog. What a strange country. I do love the countryside of England. Jordan has made me miss the empty grasslands and beautiful fields with the occasional stream cutting through. You’ll happen upon a small village with houses huddled together in tight blocks, all the same style that is distinctly “English.”
8:30 p.m.
We arrive at Euston Tap just near Euston Station. I found this place online and suggested it as a good spot for us to sample some of the fine craft beers of England. Something I know I must like in order to be my father’s son.
9:10 p.m.
We meet some lads exchanging anecdotes about beer. They ask if we have heard of their AP: Perfect Pint. Of course we have not, as it is only found in England. It will tell you by your phone’s GPS the nearest pub and what beers they have on tap.
10:00 p.m-ish
This leads to the discovery that one of the three AP fellows is a QPR season ticket holder who wants to hear about our time at Loftus Road, one is a big fan of The Wire and wants to talk Baltimore, and the third is a fan of Liverpool and wants to hear about Anfield. And upon hearing us mention The Wire, one of the bartenders chimes in and mentions he used to live in Baltimore on Calvert Street and attended Maryland Institute College of Art. Small world.
Tuesday and Wednesday
The remainder of my time with Jake in London was spent doing two things. During the day we were touristy: the Imperial War Museum, the British Museum, Trafalgar Square (my old stomping grounds from our first trip to London, where a woman once shouted that I “Sound just like a pigeon”), Hyde Park, and Buckingham Palace. Our nights were in pubs drinking REAL British Ale (Is this local?) and watching Champions League matches with REAL fans.
Thursday and Friday
I spent on the campus of London School of Economics with my GW friend David Kaye who is spending the year there studying topics that make me feel very dumb. I get a chance to spend time with college kids in a college dorm and I remember what it is like. But by Friday night I miss my own bed and my Jordanian mother who is waiting to spoil me.
Saturday
4:00 p.m.
I find myself at a bar in Heathrow Airport. An Irish place on the day before St. Patrick’s Day. A few parting Guinness and a shot of Jameson feel appropriate.
6:30 p.m.
Leaving the UK. On the flight out a British guy, John (no relation to ticket asshole), starts chatting with me. He tells me as we walk from the gate to the plane that he lives in Adams Morgan and of course, is seated across the aisle from me. The world is a smaller place now, no? He says we might know the same barmen in DC. I say, probably not, I just turned 21 on Saturday and have yet to have a legal drink in the States. “Good blimey,” he says. “You look much older.”
7:15 p.m.
Off to Amman, off to the Arab World and a place of not many “barmen.” I love the British. But after a week, my liver is done and my stomach can’t take more British food. Falafel, shawarma, hummus, fool, mutubla, and Shai ma nana (tea with mint) here I come.
4:00 a.m. Amman Time
I arrive in my bed. I pass out. I will sleep through my classes on Sunday. I need a day to recover.
Shawarma for Breakfast 
I lived the experience through your exquisite writing… when you come to Manhattan, I’ll buy you a drink 😉