Shoulda Been There research, the first trip to Liverpool

In 1993, my husband, Rande, and I made our first trip of many to Liverpool…
We were so painfully American-looking (Rande in his high-topped tennis shoes and me in my author-ish tweeds and sensible pumps). Even casual bystanders immediately knew we were “from the States.” Oh, we tried to fit in – to be as cool as our Merseyside hosts – but our language was stilted, our humor wasn’t edgy enough, and our clothes were two years out of fashion.
But Scousers (Liverpudlians) are a forgiving lot. They embraced us, despite our geeky demeanor. They smiled at us, joked with us, and brought us into the fold.
One very (very!) brisk afternoon, after driving out to West Derby to see Pete Best’s home (and the site of the former Casbah), Rande and I decided to have an early dinner in the suburbs. (In Liverpool proper, no respectable restaurants serve dinner until half-seven…seven-thirty to you Yanks. From 5 p.m. to 7:30 p.m., Liverpool is a ghost town. Stores are closed, as everyone has gone home to refresh before the evening revels begin.) We’d been driving all day – photographing Beatle homes and schools – and after negotiating “the wrong side of the street” for hours and finding unfindable places, we were both exhausted.
One bright, welcoming restaurant advertised “a hearty steak dinner” at “reasonable fare.” It sounded like just the place!
Chatting about The Casbah, Roag Best (who’d made our visit possible), and Ray Johnson of Cavern City Tours (who’d arranged it all), we exited our car. It was one of those moments that you instantaneously wish that you could recall. Almost the second that Rande closed the rental car door, he knew he’d locked the keys inside. The look of agony on his face said it all. In one instant, he realized the faux pas that would force him to brave impossible temperatures and/or call the RAA for assistance, if we were to make our appointment at The Cavern Club that evening.
I went inside the restaurant, where it was fantastically warm, to wait for his heroic rescue.
As I sat at a table, sipped a cup of tea, and watched Rande from the large picture window, the group of people seated next to me spotted my “realtor blazer” and “80’s big hair.” I could see that they were whispering to one another that I was an American. They threw me furtive glances, and I smiled politely in return.
Finally one of the group asked me the obvious, “Are y’from America, then?” I said that I was. I said that I was waiting for my husband to join me…that he was out in the frigid temps (night had fallen now, and it was icy) trying to open the rental car and retrieve the keys.
That was all I had to say. In an flash, several of the men at the table got up to go help Rande unlock the car…a task that, strangely enough, involved removing the front left tire to reach the emergency unlock button located in the wheel well.
And the women at the table insisted that I join them for a chat. They ordered more tea. They tried desperately to order me supper.
As we talked and the men assisted Rande, I told the welcoming Merseysiders about my book on John Lennon, about the people we’d interviewed over the past few days, and about our plans for the evening. They were riveted, locked on every word as if I were Walter Cronkite live on location.
By the time that Rande and his mates, keys in hand, returned to the table, my new Liverpool friends had written their addresses out on bits on napkin. “Next time you’re Merseyside,” they chided me, “don’t dream of stayin’ in some hotel, Jude. Come and stay with us! We’ve plenty of room! Really.”
And they meant it.
The people of Liverpool are honestly the warmest people in the world. They celebrate strangers. They embrace visitors with a zest Americans save for close family. It’s not sham or show; it’s genuine. And I could not have written Shoulda been there without my many Liverpool friends to guide me. Colin Fallows from John Moore’s University (formerly Liverpool College of Art), Bryan Biggs from The Bluecoat School, and Rod Murray (John’s mate from his college years) all answered questions for me over and over during the 20 years of my research. Colin arranged interviews for me and gave me e-mail connections that made my work possible…and sold Rande his beloved Epiphone Casino from Hessey’s (the City Centre music store where John purchased his first guitar). Eddie Porter of Cavern Tours introduced me to John’s Uncle Charlie; Bob Wooler spent hours telling me his alliterative stories. None of these busy people were stingy with their memories or their time. They were friendly, open, and amazing.
If you like The Beatles, you would love Liverpudlians. In fact, although The Beatles will always have a place in my heart, my real “crush” is on Scousers. One trip to Liverpool, and you’ll have it, too – Merseymania. The colorful people of Liverpool are easy to love and unbelievably hard to forget.