(up: a couple of views from the city centre)
(left: F & I during the Manchester United stadium tour; right: view from the window of our place)
(a picture I took of the Old Trafford)
I had never been to Manchester before but when you’re about to see Paul McCartney live, I mean, Sir Paul, if we want to get royal about it, geography becomes a footnote. I was finally going to see my idol in concert, the man who basically soundtracked my entire life (and possibly upgraded my standards for romantic partners and for people in general). And so, on December 14th, Fabio and I packed our emotional baggage and headed to the land of rain, football, and Britpop.
We landed the night before the concert. It was cold, dark, weirdly cheerful and the taxi driver was super friendly. Our Airbnb was near some canals, all concrete, echoes, and unexpected charm. We dropped our bags and, like any adult children filled with pre-concert jitters, immediately Googled some place to eat in the city center (we went for Indian) and discussed what Paul might open with. (“Can’t Buy Me Love, I’m telling you!” “He won’t. He never opens with that.”)
The next morning was dedicated to football. Not exactly for me, of course, this was to make Fabio happy: a pilgrimage to Old Trafford, the home of Manchester United. I’d like to say I was just tagging along out of love and companionship but the truth is I love visiting stadiums. The architecture, the cult-like energy, the absurdly overpriced merchandise. There’s something beautiful about places where people come to cheer and cry collectively over eleven strangers chasing a ball. So we did the tour, took the classic “standing awkwardly by the pitch” photo, and bought nothing (because everything was really too expensive).
Then came the main event.
Paul. McCartney.
I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a fanatic, which I absolutely am. I’m the type of fan who already knows what the encore will be but still cries like it’s a surprise. And let me tell you, he delivered. The man is in his eighties and performed for nearly three hours like he had something to prove to Father Time. Every song hit differently, maybe because I know this could be the last time I see him live or maybe because the entire arena was singing along like we were all in the same living room, just a few thousand people and one legend, trying to pretend this wasn’t the end of something.
After the show, drunk on adrenaline and nostalgia (and very sober in every other sense because we ate almost nothing all day), we stumbled back “home” and found salvation in the form of Chaplin Pizza. Maybe it was the fatigue or the way my brain was still echoing Hey Jude, but that pizza? It was a religious experience. Crispy, greasy, perfectly average, and therefore perfect. We ate it like survivors, replaying our favorite concert moments and pretending we weren’t already dreading the flight back.
(back “home” from the concert, hungry and hungover from happiness, Chaplin’s pizza saved our lives)
(up: a couple of pictures I took on Sunday morning before leaving, that’s the canal area where we were staying)
(Morrisons breakfast)
(Leaving)
Sunday morning arrived with that post-event fog. We dragged ourselves out for one last stroll, this time by the canals near our place. The city was quiet, too quiet, as if Manchester itself was hungover. Everything was closed except for one glorious Morrisons with its café area offering Full English Breakfast (vegetarian option included, this is 2024 after all). We sat among locals who gave us curious looks, as if they instinctively knew we didn’t belong. Two Milanese souls fresh off a spiritual experience, eating beans and hash browns in silence, trying to soak up every last second.
An then, just like that, it was over.
We flew back to Milan that afternoon, stomachs full, hearts fuller, and ears still ringing with Live and Let Die.
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