Life with the Liverpudlians

I see a skydiving trip
gone bad... what about you?

After months of anticipation, the long-awaited reunion of the Vincentian Volunteers occurred this weekend. Volunteers from England and Scotland met in Liverpool for our first meeting since our induction back in September. We knew it would be a chaotic and energized few days.  Central to the retreat weekend was the Myers-Briggs personality test, which we would all take and be scored accordingly. I was quite excited at the idea of taking a personality test. I am one of those people who highly enjoy taking the silly little tes\ts on Facebook: “Which Disney Princess Are You?” (Belle, of course), “What 80’s Song Represents You?” (I was told Donna Summer’s “She Works Hard for the Money” but I will contest that one), etc. I had enjoyed inkblot tests as well until Freud interpreted my results a bit disturbingly. The Meyer-Briggs test is greatly esteemed, though, so I looked forward to my results.  Besides, I thought it would be nice to have official results stating how highly sociable, cool and, basically, perfect I was! (No sarcasm there at all).

Friday turned out to be a very long day for us. The Scottish volunteers and I had been travelling from 7AM well into the late afternoon. Then we were prepped for a good few hours on the importance and reasoning behind the test (I could write my own book on the subject now). By the end of the first session, around 10PM, I was ready for bed. It was not to be early night for us, though, for how could we pass up the first day of Harry Potter madness in the very nation where Potter first flew his wee broom?

I thought that we would still be home at a decent hour, forgetting how long each of these movies has become. The late hour added to the effects, however, because our extreme fatigue made the rather dark film even more suspenseful. I will admit that there was a point where I covered my eyes. Since when did children’s films become so frightening?! The best moment, though, was the breakdown of the heartbroken girl sitting behind me in the cinema. You would have thought she was watching her grandmother die, the way she was carrying on at Dobby’s death scene. Heaving sobs, whimpering, and the soft, “No! Not poor Dobby!” Some people cross the boundaries of reality and never return, I think. We finally crawled into bed around 2:30am, getting a few hours of sleep for the next early morning.

Saturday proved long, but just as eventful. Despite the long yawns, we were eager to get our test results back. The enthusiasm, in hindsight, was a bit silly, as we were basically getting excited to see a piece of paper tell us “who we are”, which I’m sure we already knew. But I digress. I will reveal, here and now, that I am ENFJ, which of course means I am perfect. The others weren’t so lucky, but better luck next time, guys.

 After the big revelation, the session ended early and some of the volunteers and I began Phase 2: The Best Goo Goo Dolls Concert Ever! If you are reading this and wondering which band I just mentioned, you need to a) Get out from under your rock, b) Find a computer, c) Download every Goo Goo Dolls song ever recorded. Their biggest hit is “Iris,” which was the theme song in the more forgettable movie City of Angels. The concert was in a small venue, and audience participation was highly encouraged. I’ll never forget a huge Liverpool man with the roughest accent yelling out, “I LOVE YOU JOHNNY!” in the middle of the gig, both terrifying Johnny and making him burst out laughing. (If you haven’t noticed, I have a slight crush on Johnny. “Sex on Eggs,” as one Liverpudlian yelled out last night). We ended the night with wine, liqueurs, and introducing the Indonesian volunteers to David Hasselhoff. (Remember: “Don’t Hassle the Hoff”).

Johnny and Robby on guitars

As always, our reunion was hectic, loud, and sociable, but we loved every minute of it. We learned more about ourselves than planned. We also discovered the hidden secrets to our Liverpool Volunteers’ lifestyle, such as the fact that their house is literally next door to a popular club (now I know what they do every night), and they have a REAL coffeepot! Non-Americans will not understand the significance of this, but someone like my Mom certainly would. The British willingly drink inferior instant coffee here (I know, disgusting!), and they’re perfectly fine with that. It’s actually very difficult to find a true coffeemaker here for a decent price. Impossible, some might say. So, this discovery and use of a luxury good was the cherry on top of my wonderful weekend in Liverpool. I hope to return soon!