My train ride from Liverpool to Manchester went by quicker than I would have liked. I woke up from a nap to the commotion of passengers eagerly pushing past each other to get off the train, and I knew judging by the crowd outside simultaneously pushing their way onboard that this must be the big city I had been looking for. I joined the mass of raincoat-toting tourists on the platform and made my way out of Picadilly station where a striking bell tower adorned with red neon signs greeted me from across the street. I walked under it and continued down a broad road lined with stout skyscrapers and handsome streetlamps. It was a crisp afternoon and the tall buildings funneled the winter wind down the street and right through everyone’s coats.
I turned a corner and all of a sudden I was in the middle of a tiny china town. A large oriental arch stood in front of me and behind it a few dozen little shops and restaurants glowed warmly under red paper lanterns. I could see another identical arch a few hundred yards down the same street where the district ended as abruptly as it started. I walked along leisurely, peeking into shops and treating myself to a couple dumplings from a street vendor. As I left the mini china town a light rain began to fall and I ducked into a coffee shop for a pick-me-up and some free wifi. The little coffee shop had a lovely view of the Picadilly Gardens, which currently sported a jumbo ferris wheel and a thirty-foot Christmas tree.
I used the opportunity to call an old family friend who lived near Manchester, Eileen, an extremely kind woman who my dad had met travelling many years ago. We had corresponded a few times during the previous weeks about me visiting her that weekend, but she was unfortunately unreachable at the moment as her answering machine greeted me for the third time in a row. I left a message saying that I was in town and having a look around.
On the recommendation of the coffee shop barista, I took the sleek Manchester tramline to the Mediacity Quays district. I exited the train at the end of the line and found myself in a wide open area where the river Irwell funneled around narrow cays of land all connected by ultramodern cable bridges. Directly in front of me was an outdoor Christmas market complete with an ice skating rink and tantalizing smells of gingerbread and mince pies. I perused the log-cabin styled stalls with interest but sadly knew that my wallet was much lighter ever since I had exchanged the rest of my Euros to Pounds back in Liverpool. I enjoyed a handful of free samples from a few friendly vendors before making my way to a nearby museum.
The Lowery gallery was a massive and unusually oblong metal building next to the water not far from the market. It showcased the most famous paintings of Mr. Lowery, an artist I had previously never heard of and unfortunately did not learn much about during my visit since I spent the majority of my time there getting told off by security guards for all the rules I was unwittingly breaking. “Sir, you can’t bring your backpack into the main exhibit.” “Sir, there are no photographs allowed inside the gallery.” “Sir, we do not allow chewing gum in here.” “Sir, that’s the women’s lavatory.” The biggest highlight of the gallery for me was an exhibit near the exit that had nothing to do with Lowery at all. It was a wall of black and white photographs featuring A list Hollywood celebrities making funny faces at the camera. One photo that stood out from the rest just showed the back of a man’s head with a little gold nameplate on the frame that said, Samuel L. Jackson.
I left the Lowery gallery, making my way over another bridge to an oblong metal building that looked like a moon base more than anything else. It was the International War Museum, possibly the best museum I’d seen during my entire trip. After being funneled through a narrow winding entrance hall, the museum opened into a massive space the size of an airplane hanger where tanks, WWII era cars, higgens boats, and suspended fighter planes were everywhere. The museum had exhibits on basically every modern war I had read about in social studies, rife with photographs, uniforms, interactive films, and of course enough ordinance to start a small war.
As I explored the museum I got a phone call from Eileen, the family friend I had tried to reach earlier. She said that she would love for me to visit her and her family that evening and would be happy to give me a place to stay. So I hopped back on the tram and returned to Piccadilly station to meet her. Together, we drove to her little town of Oldham perched up on a hill that overlooked the twinkling evening lights of Manchester. At her house, Eileen currently had her best friend and brother visiting, and Eileen treated all of us to bountiful feast of fabulous English cuisine. It had been a long time since I had had such a massive plate put in front of me and it felt to me like a belated Thanksgiving meal. There’s really nothing quite like sharing a home cooked meal with people to make you feel warmly embraced in a new place.
After dinner we all went out to Eileen’s church where an outdoor Christmas tree lighting ceremony and candle-lit caroling concert filled me with holiday spirit. It even started to snow toward the end of the concert, putting a little dusting of winter magic on top of the peaceful scene. We left the concert, but didn’t return to Eileen’s house. As she currently had a full house, Eileen’s daughter had offered put me up for the night. Now, many years ago Eileen and her daughter came to visit my family in North Carolina. I wasn’t even three years old at the time, and I apparently annoyed Eileen’s daughter so much that she dumped me in a garbage can when nobody was looking. Well she is now a retired police officer with a baby of her own, who I for a mocking revenge, held over a garbage can as we all posed for a photo together. Her husband was something of a musician, and he pulled out a guitar and a few other stringed instruments for us to jam on.
They were all such lovely people to spend time with and it made me sad that my visit would be so short. But unfortunately, I had a flight booked back to Germany in two days’ time and first thing in the morning I would have to leave Manchester on a bus bound for London.