Nobody understands me. As I open my mouth I see a rising panic in their eyes. Sometimes they make a wild guess at what I mean but often they just look at me. Liverpool consists of a few streets of clapboard houses. In the centre they are quaint and historic but as you walk out of town the houses get tattier. Bits of broken cars stacked at the foot of the veranda, dogs barking on chains – weirded out by the sight of a walker. At night Liverpool has a hotel, a pizza parlor and bowling alley – every second car is a pickup, every other top lip has a moustache.