Ashley Loranger tells the story of her recent visit to Anfield to see Liverpool take on Arsenal, with some advice for fellow fans from the US who are hoping to make the trip

Editor's note: This story is a first-person account of a Liverpool FC Boston supporters club member who traveled from the United States to Anfield.

My advice for anyone planning on making the trip to visit Anfield from abroad is: that itinerary you have printed with bullet points of where to go and when? You won’t need it.

I’m sure if you’re reading this you’ve heard that Liverpool Football Club is a direct reflection of the city it represents. I’ve always thought of that in terms of its values, politics, and fighting spirit, but I’d never placed it in the context of time and energy. Because, much like the football team itself, the city of Liverpool follows its own timeline.

There’s a current of energy within this city that will push and pull you to places you never expected to go, and you’ll be all the better for going along for the ride if you’re willing to take the chance.

When the LFC Boston supporters club sent out their biannual lottery for tickets in August, I submitted my name immediately. I knew I could make it to the city for the Arsenal match, what I didn’t know was if I would be fortunate enough to “win” one of the 12 tickets allocated. This year fate was kind to me.

I departed from Logan International on the red-eye heading for Dublin on Saturday evening. Stuck on the tarmac for an hour due to a malfunctioning gate, the layover was less leisurely than originally planned. A weather warning was grounding flights to my left and right as I sat on the floor of the terminal that had run out of seats, next to a young girl in a forest-green and white-flecked Alisson Becker kit.

They were on their way to the Brighton match and they were concerned they would miss it after the other Liverpool-bound planes were delayed. Ours was the last on-time departure. Her father squeezed her hand and assured her it would all work out. As our tiny propeller plane, which felt more like a kite, touched down at John Lennon Airport, his promise was fulfilled.

My plan was to settle into my hotel for a few days to get acclimated, film some podcast content for The Talkin’ Kop, and get some much-needed sleep before going to see the team play. It might just be my experience, but much like Liverpool FC, Liverpool as a city doesn’t seem to respond well to carefully laid plans. I’d go so far as to say plans are useless when visiting. Once you arrive, it’s as if time stops existing the way it does anywhere else.

As my cab cruised down Aigburth Road from the airport towards the city center, I received a text from a friend: "Ticket on The Kop available for Brighton due to weather." The game started in less than an hour... this wasn’t part of the plan. "Yours if you want it, but I need your answer now."

"Yes," I responded, and so it began.

In the eight days that followed, I got to see Liverpool play three matches. Two were completely unplanned. At Brighton, I raced up the stairs in time to see two frenetic, fluid attacks followed by a controlled second half. At Chelsea, I saw a mix of youth and experience go toe to toe with Xabi Alonso’s side, ending in a nerve-wracking penalty shootout that finished with a Joe Gomez goal and a spectacular miss by Wesley Fofana.

At Arsenal, I got to stand with 11 other fans from Boston to see a banner cascade over our heads for the first time on The Kop as the passion of the stadium came together, despite a referee who might as well have been wearing a butter-yellow kit.

But it wasn’t just the matches that made the trip. It was everything that surrounded them. The highlights that exist outside of the tours and the museums. They’re not on the well-trodden paths. They happen when you stop looking, and when you let the city show you its soul.

They happen on the way to Anfield as you pass May Duncans, actively debating the merits of FSG ownership with a passionate cabbie who used to work a corporate job but left to feel the freedom of driving excited fans to Anfield after their hours — or days-long pilgrimages into the city.

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They happen when you meet the friends you only see twice a year in the Glenbuck for a post-match pint followed by a ride into town with Bollywood hits blasting through the open windows.

They happen when you’re sprinting across the cobblestones through Liverpool One to St. Peter’s Tavern to film a podcast, your feet in bits, only to find yourself being invited along to a night at the M&S Bank Arena to watch Liverpool’s basketball team play Cheshire Phoenix in their inaugural season. Where you cheer along with a young boy’s vuvuzela and end the night dancing at Motel until the early morning.

They happen when, even after a loss to Arsenal, you’re invited into someone’s sitting room for a cup of tea to wait for a cab, their family in bathrobes on their settee and their dog at your feet like you’ve always been a part of their family.

Liverpool doesn’t have an itinerary. It doesn’t fit into a box. It’s fluid, it’s vibrant, it’s alive. Plan your flight, get your tickets to the match, but leave the rest open to serendipity. Start with the full English at Shiraz, and then let the city work its magic. It will all work out.