#6: The Cavern Club, Liverpool

Mathew Street, unlike the rest of Liverpool, hadn’t changed much in the past six years. One or two new Beatles-devoted shops had opened. Other than that, I might as well have been thirteen again, seeing the place for the first time. Then I heard something I didn’t remember. Music drifted up through an open doorway, sounding almost as if the earth itself was creating it:

            “I’m looking through you / Where did you go? / I thought I knew you / What did I know? / You don’t look different, but you have changed / I’m looking through you / You’re not the same.”

The Cavern Wall of Fame, performers who have played there.

            My parents and I moved down into the Cavern Club. Like Mathew Street above, it was almost the same as I recalled. Brick arches crisscrossed the dark room, and a guitarist pounded out Beatles songs on the stage (surprise!). Scrawled all over every surface were past visitors’ names. I spent a few happy minutes searching for my own name from ’09. I never found it – it was buried under six years’ worth of approved graffiti – but I still enjoyed seeing the scribblings. Some of the names were recent; some dated all the way back to the 1970s. It was amazing to think about the thousands of people who had passed through here, just to see the place where the Beatles had become famous.

Inside the Cavern.

            I sat underneath an arch, my back to the worn bricks, as close to the stage as I could get. I’d heard and played all the songs before, thousands of times: “Blackbird,” “I’ll Follow The Sun,” “Something.” But here in the Cavern, they took on the same magical quality they’d had the night I first heard them. The music’s creators began in this club. And since I owed my interest in music to the Beatles, in a way, my own life as a musician started here too.

            The guitarist entered the endless coda of “Hey Jude.” Almost spontaneously, the people in front of the stage started singing along, as usual. With the guitarist’s encouragement, the rest of the club joined in. Not for the first time on this trip, I brushed my eyes with my hand before going back to my parents’ table.

#5: Chester

Chester wasn’t originally on our list of places to go. But a friend of mine was taking classes at the university there, so we decided to try and meet up. I never connected with the friend, but what remained was a delightful day blending in with the people around me.

Chester was a postcard-quality town.

            It began on the train. I watched the city of Liverpool fall behind and give way to smaller towns nestled in the dark green hills. The seats ahead of us were filled with children, none of them older than five, chattering politely about their day trip. When we came to their stop, the aides ushered them out, and the kids repeated their phrase “Get off the train” in one adorable chorus.

"My kingdom for some cheese!"

Chester Cathedral garden

            My parents and I spent the bright, beautiful day wandering around Chester. We’d received some recommendations of things to see, namely the Roman walls and the stunning cathedral. But most of our day was spent walking around with no particular destination. I adored Chester, with its narrow cobblestone streets and shop fronts that looked like Shakespeare could’ve lived in them. Many of those buildings had dates painted above their doors; one of the homes we passed dated from 1897.

            But the thing I enjoyed most about Chester, as usual, was the people we met and saw. The docents at Chester Cathedral were bursting with information and with questions about my own trip to England. I had a fun conversation with a cheese shop owner about a “Richard III Wensleydale” she had for sale. And as we sat on the edge of the square, nibbling strawberries and cheese, I heard a symphony of everyday noises: two older men talking behind us, children laughing, and a blues guitarist serenading the square. I drank it in, happy to be considered part of this town, if only for today.

#4: Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris

Notre Dame Cathedral’s two towers cast long, dark shadows across the square. I felt my neck pop as I tried to see the roof. I found myself admiring the intricacy of it, from the smiling saints carved in layers above the doors to the tiny gargoyles near the top of the towers, leering down at the rest of Paris.

The most beautiful building in Paris.

            High above the square, the cathedral bells rang nine times. I convinced my parents to go inside for the 9 o’clock Mass, remembering how much I’d enjoyed hearing it in Spain. As we walked through the wooden doors, I could instantly tell Notre Dame was lovely, with flickering reflections of candles dancing on the black-and-white floors. And then I heard it, echoing through the columns, seeming to emanate from the very walls:

North Rose Window

            Alleluia, alleluia… alleluia, alleluia…

            The Gregorian chant, bounced off of every surface. It filled the towering stone arches, rising all the way to the bands of marble crisscrossing the ceiling. The echoes easily lasted eight seconds or longer, sound waves overlapping each other and creating an otherworldly drone effect. I crossed to the heart of the cathedral and stood still, listening to the chanting. Bright spots of red, blue, and green sparkled on my left arm. I glanced up and couldn’t help gasping: sunlight was coming through the North Rose Window, and I stood right in the center of the circle of light. Without warning, tears sprang into my eyes. It was the most beautiful thing I’d experienced in Paris.

            I wouldn’t describe myself as religious. However, I can tell when I’m in a sacred place. It’s a physical feeling: a certain tingling of the spine, a seemingly unexplained shiver that sends goosebumps down my arms. Standing there in the North Rose Window’s light, listening to the Alleluia and having those sensations, I knew that I was in a very sacred place indeed.