The Spring Break MEGA-Blog: Part 2

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.

The Spring Break MEGA-Blog: Part 1

A few weeks ago (better late then never on this blog right???) I left Jordan for eight days of rest and relaxation in England. I went to go experience Premier League football and the British pub culture, something that I missed the first time I went to London with my family in 2001. My older brother Jake took “holiday” and met me in London.

Part One: Culture Shock

March 8, 2013

Amman, Jordan 5:46 a.m.
Two muscle guys with British accents sit directly behind me on the plane. One has a tattoo of a rose on his left bicep, the symbol of England’s rugby team. I can’t understand a word of what they are saying. This trip could be very interesting if I don’t know what the heck is being said. I can understand Arabic enough, but I had no idea British English would be harder. I was greeted with “Cheers,” by the British flight attendant; I said “Sabh al kheir,” Arabic for Good Morning.

8:01 a.m. London time
We are beginning our decent and the British guys behind me are talking about Ginger Wally. I am not sure what this is slang for, but I know that I have arrived in somewhere very different.

8:24 a.m.
I nearly trip while on a moving walkway as I stare at two girls with blonde hair. Welcome back to the Western World!

9:38 a.m.
On the Heathrow connect to Paddington Station, which takes you through West London neighborhoods that look so British. Houses tightly packed together like any city, but they have a distinct foreign look in an industrial looking area. The weather is a beautiful gray with puddles and some raindrops from earlier showers. This sure as shit ain’t Jordan. And looks exactly like London should; just like every other passenger. I don’t know what exactly that look means, but they look “different.” I guess I am preparing for a little culture shock. I am used to the Middle East and right now I feel like my eyes are as wide as dinner plates. In 17 minutes above ground on the train I have seen more industry than in all of Jordan in two months. I have gone from a country with a King on the money, to a country with a Queen on the money. Except in the former, the King still rules.

11:07 a.m.
Aimlessly walking around the neighborhood around Paddington after several cups of coffee just getting a feel for the city. I have a day to kill before Jake arrives and I don’t have anything else planned but relaxing and adjusting. A policewoman on a horse walks past me. This place is so weird.

11:31 a.m.
First pint of Guinness at a pub, a 19.2 ounce Imperial Pint of a creamy beer that is just delicious. I picked up a copy of The Times and read the many pages of soccer coverage. Heaven on Earth.

12:20 p.m.
I order another Guinness and an order of fish & chips with mushy peas. I really enjoy this little sports pub that I’ve stumbled upon. A few other people are drinking and enjoying a rainy early afternoon. I love the quality of the writing on a peace about the previous nights Tottenham-Inter Milan Europa League match: “It was not just Bale, though, who menaced them on this occasion. Kyle Walker breezed past Juan Jesus and Alcaro Pereira on Inter’s left flank as though they were but spectators; Gargno, a yapping little terrier, could not so much as nip at Mousa Dembele’s heels.” The chips are crisp, fish is good cod, and peas are mushy.

By 1:30 p.m.
I arrive at my hotel. I check in, lie down in the bed, and drift in and out of sleep. I then take one of the greatest showers I have ever had. After two months of waiting an hour for the water to heat up my water so I can take a shower, instant hot water with intense water pressure is amazing.

That Night
I pub hope going to a few different places and try different kinds of beer. I have my first meat pie, a steak and ale variety in a place next to Euston Station and chat with an older man about football and cricket.

I have a few chats with other strangers, partly because I can not help but strike up conversation, also because I am having a hard time adjusting and am starring at people. They are all amazed that I am studying in the Middle East and have a hard time understanding why I chose to study there. I am having a harder time understanding what they are saying to me. English is spoken enough around AMIDEAST that I still hear it everyday, but English English is a whole different animal.

After a few more pints I am exhausted from jet lag and ready for sleep. Tomorrow is a huge day: my 21^st birthday, my first premier league game, and the first time I will see a family member in two months.

Day Two: Extra Cold Edition

March 9, 2013:

7 a.m.
I am up early, jet legged (Amman is three hours ahead of London) but well rested. I lay in my bed a little while longer before taking another exceptional shower for an exceptionally long time, one of the best birthday presents I have ever received.

8:03 a.m.
A free breakfast buffet and a copy of The Times. Almost ordered my morning coffee in Arabic. The man to my right is Nottingham Forrest kit. A good start.

By 9 a.m.
I see a familiar face coming through the door: JAKE! A sight for sore eyes on my birthday. He looks good, but terribly jetlagged. A quick shower and our first drink of the day—some lovely scotch—before Jake grabs breakfast and we head to West London and Loftus Road for QPR-Sunderland.

11:44 a.m.
On the Tube to game:
Jake: “I have no idea what it is going to be like.”
Me: “Do we stand?”

While on the tube, we did read some nice poetry. Seriously.

12:10 p.m.
We have arrived at our first English pub before the game. Not terribly crowded at this pre-match place, mind you, three hours before kickoff. Jake made a terrible mess of entering the pub, showing a security guard (which I presumed was there to maintain order) his American drivers license. He seemed beyond confused, his face saying, “Why is this guy showing me this ID?” It is 18 to drink in London and neither of us looks 18.

12:22 p.m.
Jake: “Do they allow women in pubs?”

12:38 p.m.
On TV everybody is waiting to watch Everton play Wigan in a 6th round FA Cup game at 1 p.m. Everybody he is here to watch football, talk football, and drink beer. Most are not wearing any of the teams colors colours whatsoever. The exact opposite to American sports where you go to a game in your teams gear only. Is this due to the violent mentality that still hovers over English football?

1:01 p.m.
Me: “I think there are 10 women here and six of them are working behind the bar.”

1:03 p.m.
Me: “This is a lot more bald friendly country than Jordan.”
Jake: “What do you mean?”
Me: “There are a lot more bald people here.”

1:06 p.m.
The Cranberries song “Zombie” is playing in the bar.
Jake: “We’ll it’s good to note the music hasn’t changed since the 1992 inception of the Premier League.”

1:07 p.m.
One of the six women bartenders is now singing along to Zombie.

1:55 p.m.
Three bobbies walk through the pub. Nobody pays much attention to them. Jake and I wonder what was the issue? We assume just to check on the supporters from both clubs drinking together in one pub. And we are reminded this will not be an average sporting event.

2:08 p.m.
We are asked by our two new friends—supporters of Sunderland and older men—about our feelings of the team Wolverhampton, better known as Wolves. “Sentimental. Sympathetic.” They answer the question about wearing colors: comes down to the fan base. Some wear colors, others don’t.

2:19 p.m.
We are really enjoying the beers of London. We have tasted several delicious beers, but have been sticking with Carling’s Extra Cold variety. A light beer that seems to be looked down upon and is served Extra Cold—which only means the beer is three degrees colder than normal.

2:45 p.m.
We have arrived at Loftus Road. We walked with the supporters through a odd looking turnstile and into a old stadium that holds around 19,000.

Loftus Road

3:00 p.m.
Kickoff has arrived. We are so excited! Oh wait. These teams are crap. Nevermind that. We are THERE!

3:55 p.m.
Half time QPR 1-Sunderland 1. Jake and I enjoy a half time pint and split our first British meat pie. We have to hurry with the pint, because you can’t drink inside the stands but only in the concourse. You can’t bring anything out to the ground you might throw on the pitch.

4:15 p.m.
We have begun to chat with the Scottish supporter in front of us and tell him that our Great Grandfather was from Aberdeen, Scotland. He responds: “Ohhh Aberdeen. Well their sheep shaggers.”
(Our new friend then goes to the bathroom and misses this score. Filmed by me.)

4:47 p.m.
QPR 3-Sunderland 1. We head to a pub called the Springbok and have a celebratory pint with all of the giddy QPR supporters. Outside of the stadium twenty or so police sit watching from their horses.

8:00 p.m.
Exhausted, dehydrated, and our breath wreaking of beer, we sleep on our train to Liverpool for tomorrows match.

11:14 p.m.
Jake and I arrive at the hostel. Drop our bags down and walk five minutes to Anfield, where Liverpool play football. We have to see the ground the first chance we get. We have made it to our holy site.