Liverpool has always been a city of crossings; of arrivals, of departures, of comings and goings, of connection and distance, of geography and of condition, suspended between shores.
From the docks that once tethered it to the far corners of the British Empire, to the ferry that traced its patient line across the River Mersey -- binding the Wirral to the Liver Bird -- movement here is incidental, it is the grammar of the city, lives measured in passages.
It's no coincidence that one of the city's most enduring musical exports -- Ferry Cross The Mersey -- speaks not of travel, but of longing, of reconnection, and of return... or that another one of Gerry and the Pacemakers' greatest hits -- You'll Never Walk Alone -- became a civic creed, a doctrine, much more than just a football anthem.
When Mohamed Salah arrived in 2017, Liverpool was already a city proud of its difference, its sense of itself as something slightly apart from the rest of England, more outward-looking, more defiant, shaped by tides rather than borders, not afraid to boo the national anthem or the Champions League hymn.
In the 19th century, nearly 40 percent of the world's trade passed through those distant docks; a century later, Michael Heseltine would stand in resistance to Margaret Thatcher to prevent its 'managed decline'.
The city survived by insisting on itself; the football club, however, was waiting. Its historic stature endured, but as memory rather than modern momentum. Echoes of Kenny Dalglish and Stevie Heighway still swirled around the corners of Anfield, their presence heavy.
Messers Rush, Fowler and Gerrard left traces on those hopeful hearts, but the club was crying out for fulfilment after the false dawn of Rafael Benitez's tenure and the illusory hope of Brendan Rogers.
Salah became the catalyst.
His impact on pitch was immediate; electric in its clarity, breaking the record for goals scored in a 38-game season with 32 in the Premier League during that first 17-18 campaign. Goals flowed with relentless abandon, records tumbled and silverware followed.
Beyond brilliance, he offered them belief. Beyond success, he restored identity.
Liverpool, a city so wrapped up in its own legend, had been too often reminded of its own limitations; failure in the 2007 Champions League final, petty mind games against Sir Alex, Gerrard's slip. It became more comfortable to roam in the ruins of yesteryear, those places we remember, those places that had their moments.
But with Salah, there was no need to dwell in the glories and almost-glories of the past. New glories were forged; three Champions League finals, two winners medals, two Premier League crowns -- ending a three-decade wait to return to their perch, a swathe of other honours, and perhaps yet, more to follow this season.
"He helped us remember who we are."
Salah replicated that Gerrard effect when it came to European nights at Anfield, they became, once again, about something more than football, something spiritual even, about a club who had conquered it all, and could again conjure magic from anywhere.
The relationship between Salah and Liverpool has always extended beyond the boundaries of the pitch.
He arrived as a visibly Muslim superstar in a country where conversations around Islam have often been fraught. The broader national discussion contained suspicion, misunderstanding, and at times, hostility.
In Liverpool, something different seemed to unfold. In supporter chants, there were casual reference to his faith in a way that felt inclusive rather than othering.
"If he scores another few, then I'll be Muslim too," may not be theologically sound, but it was politically striking.
There was the normalisation of his practices; fasting during Ramadan, prostrating in prayer after scoring, speaking openly, calmly about his beliefs and his convictions. Here was his wife in a hijab, unequivocal communication of his stance on Gaza, telling Time magazine that he wanted the Muslim world to "change the way we treat women in our culture."
Salah was not treated as an outsider who had happened to excel, he was embraced as one of Liverpool's own. He wasn't the first, and he won't be the last, but in doing so, he reshaped perceptions.
"We don't care what your name is boy, we'll never turn you away," Marsden sang, all those years ago, and here, Salah embodied this decades-old Liverpudlian doctrine.
A Stanford University study found that anti-Muslim hate crimes on Merseyside fell by nearly 19 percent in the years following his arrival -- an effect not mirrored in other categories of crime, nor in comparable regions.
Among Liverpool supporters, anti-Muslim discourse online halved, while Anfield now welcomes Muslims to take Iftar at the break of Ramadan.
Of course, this is not exclusively due to Salah alone, nor Sadio Mané, nor Hugo Ekitike; Liverpool's history of diversity, of migration, of being that place of passage, laid the groundwork long before Salah arrived.
But his presence -- full of positivity, that most irrefutable of responses, belief, and excellence -- made it visible. He didn't arrive with the aim of becoming a cultural bridge, but he became one, nonetheless, like a ferry crossing two riverbanks, that consistent accumulated action that becomes the fabric of a place.
Cairo too, another city that knows a thing or two about rivers, about layers, about lost identity, about negotiating between past and present, has been rewired by Salah's impact in Liverpool.
Is he the most famous Egyptian figure on an international stage since the tomb of Tutankhamun was discovered in 1922?
I wrote in 2019, of how, since Salah's first record-breaking season on Merseyside, every conversation with any taxi driver in Cairo follows the same pathways.
"Greetings sir, welcome in Egypt. Where you from?" is how every conversation begins, and when I reply, eventually, that I am from Liverpool, inevitably, the talk can only turn to one man.
"Mohamed Salah! Egyptian hero," is the response and then, without fail, we'll be talking about Salah for the next two or three minutes, or more.
Or rather, I'd be listening to someone talking about Salah; gushing, proud, unabashed, cataloguing, goals scored, records broken, Champions Leagues won, role in Egypt's 2018 World Cup qualification, Sergio Ramos, that goal against Watford, that goal against Manchester City, that goal against Southampton. Local property here as well.
Eventually, it becomes easier just to tell people I came from Toxteth, or Knotty Ash, or Woolton, or West Derby... just to talk about something else.
"Fazakerley? Where is Fazakerley?" one inquisitive Uber driver asked me during the 2019 AFCON. "Is it near Liverpool?"
No longer were Egyptian footballers insular successes who made little mark on foreign shores. Now an Egyptian, an Arab, a Muslim, a North African stood alongside the finest in the sport.
Salah doesn't just belong to Egypt anymore; while they still call him the Egyptian King, in Liverpool, he's just 'Mo'.
This is what belonging looks like, Salah is not just Egypt's son, he's Liverpool's too. From the Mersey to the Nile, this is a story that stretches far beyond each of these two cities. Yet nothing lasts forever.
This week, the city of Liverpool retired the Mersey Ferry itself, inspiration for Gerry Marsden's 1965 hit, after 66 years of service.
The commuter boat became more than just a mode of transport, it became a symbol of the city; of continuity, of connection, of those everyday rituals that bind Liverpool together.
It's retirement turns the page on an era of the city's history, of its cultural fabric, and while the boat itself will be replaced - a newer, flashier, expensive model - the meaning cannot. Salah's time is finite as well.
During his era, intertwined with Jurgen Klopp, Liverpool has reaffirmed its place in the global game. A city so rooted in the glories of its music, the glories of its football, is no longer just a memory, it's a destination, redefined for a generation.
Salah helped the Liverpool of today connect with the Liverpool of yesterday. He reconnected Liverpool with itself.
They'll still be talking about 'Mo', and while he'll embark for some distant shores, he'll never truly be gone. And somewhere, in the rhythm of the river, in the echo of a song, you can almost hear it still: You'll never walk alone.