As I write this, the majestic cityscape of London is fading into the distance as I ride the train from Waterloo station, en route to Portsmouth. My visit to the big capital city was brief, but immeasurably memorable. The last three days were chalked full of more landmark sightseeing, museum exploring, street performing, pub hopping, people watching, train jumping, double-decker bus riding, and getting losting than I ever could have dreamed.

I arrived in London Stansted airport, via Baden Baden, Germany, at 7:30am on Thursday (October 16th). As you can imagine, I had gotten a brutally early start to make my 6:30am flight—leaving the cushy comforts of my little German village just before 5 in the morning. The flight was with Ryan Air, the Greyhound bus of the European skies that is famous for its cheap ticket prices, and infamous for its plethora of hidden fees and unfriendly service. But aside from the 15 Euro fee for checking my backpack, I was very pleased with my Ryan Air experience. Just know that if you ever find yourself flying with the airline, you cannot get anything to eat or drink from the little trolley without paying for it. Thankfully the bathrooms are free to use!

On the plane, I sat next to a girl who was about my age, who was originally from Spain. She was studying German in Karlsruhe, and we conversed enthusiastically about our upcoming travel plans in the UK, entirely in German. Like me, it was her first time visiting the Queen’s empire, and we decided to work together to find our way into central London. You see, despite being named “London Stansted Airport,” the city of London is actually over an hour away by car from the airpark. So after clearing customs breezily with my German passport, the two of us tracked down a budget coach (charter bus) with service to Liverpool Street, in downtown London.

Being unable to sleep a wink on the plane, due mostly in part to the unholy amount of coffee I had drunk that morning to remain conscious en route to the airport, I took a nap during the bus ride. After about an hour though, I was stirred out of my head bobbing coma by the sound of my new traveling partner’s gasps and cries of “Oh! Santa Maria” as the bus left the quaint English countryside and entered the sheer bloody chaos of the city. How these bus drivers manage to navigate the narrow lanes of London in those behemoth people-movers without ripping off side mirrors or flattening j-walkers is beyond me. My eyes were positively glued to the window as we passed cobblestoned walkways, old-world architecture, and towering glass skyscrapers. 

London, at a glance, appears to be a city that is unsure and unconcerned with what exactly it wants to be, fusing both archaic and super modern buildings into an absurdist painting that screams history, prosperity, and diversity.

Upon reaching Liverpool Street, my Spanish friend and I went our separate ways, exchanging phone numbers and Facebook pages should we cross paths again, either in England, or back in Germany. I strapped on my fully-loaded pack, and for the first time since I had arrived in Europe, I truly felt the overwhelming sensation of freedom and adventure. In Germany, I had family, friends, and a safety net secure enough to catch an elephant. But here, in the heart of London, I was on my own. I found myself full of energy, fueled by a soul-quaking sense of wanderlust. Without any map or clue where I was going, I started walking with a smile glued to my face.

I had the thought of sitting in an English cafe and ordering black tea with milk and honey, but realized I could not do that just yet since I had only Euros in my pocket. Looking around Liverpool street for some clue of how to remedy this problem, my eyes fell upon the iconic helmet of a London Police officer walking with a confident gait toward a London police station. In the States, I avoid police like the plague; their air of unquestionable authority and the 9mm semi-automatics that they like to finger absentmindedly is much more intimidating than it is reassuring. But in the UK, with their cute little hats, neon green reflective vests, and beaming smiles, the Bobbies exude an air of friendliness and sincerity to accompany their authority. Indeed, a five minute stop at the police station not only answered my question about where to get the best exchange rate for my Euros, but also resolved my problem of not having a map.

Ten minutes later, my Euros were turned into a somewhat lesser amount of pounds (80 Euro cents to a single Pound).

I followed my boy scout instinct to walk downhill to find water. Water is the focal point around which life revolves, and I knew that if I found the River Thames, I would find my way into the heart of London.

During this initial leg of my journey, I picked up a hitchhiker on my sleeve. An impressively large ladybug, whose heavy burden of travel I could empathize with, crawled about from my shoulder, to my wrist, and back again for half an hour as I navigated the streets of London. I quickly grew fond of my little companion and his vagabonding spirit, and named him George after my favorite Beatle. When George and I finally turned the corner and were met by a crisp wind funneled over the River Thames through Tower Bridge, it took my breath away. “We’ve done it George,” I whispered into my backpack strap, where my little friend had found good grip and a view from the mesh padding there.

In my excitement to get onto the bridge, I actually strode right by the Tower of London without a glance. It was on the bridge that my foray into professional selfie-photo taking began. Thanks to my Tmobile unlimited international data plan, I immediately began uploading these photos, en mass, to Facebook. I wanted to share the sense of wonder and excitement I was feeling with all my friends around the world, and through the power of the internet, I could do so immediately!

Halfway across Tower Bridge, I turned back and noticed the brutish-looking fortress that was the Tower of London, and decided to turn back to check it out. It was unfortunately swarmed with tourists, school groups, and queues that went on as far as the eye could see. I decided to just enjoy its architecture from the outside and read every historical information sign posted around it. A campaign honoring the sacrifices of all the British soldiers who fought in World War II had surrounded the entire fortress in thousands of red-painted metal poppy flowers–a beautifully sombre sight to behold. The metal floral arrangement was a hotspot for tourist photographers, and I offered as many groups of English and German speaking people to take their picture for them as an effort to start the trip with some positive karma.

I trekked back across the length of Tower Bridge, opting to walk along the river in the direction of London Bridge. London Brudge just ended up being an architecturally disappointing water-crossing for cars with only narrow sidewalks for pedestrians. The pedestrian path by the river, called the Queens Walk, was beautiful and full of life. Everywhere I turned there were photo-worthy views of the city, happy examples of family, and young love. I stopped at the large glass sphere that was city hall, but was denied entry due to my backpack. I walked by dozens and dozens of little shops and riverside cafes, but did not stop to spend my money in any; there was still too much to see and do before I could stop and rest!

I walked across little London Bridge and found myself beneath the towering Monument of London that was built in the late fifteenth century in remembrance of the 1666 Great Fire. After showing my Youth card, which I insisted was the same as a Student Card, I only paid 2 pounds to climb the 311–step spiral staircase to see London from a staggering 202 foot view. I asked a helpful young Iranian girl named Asoodeh at the top of the monument which direction I should hike for the city-center, and she pointed me back across London Bridge.

Taking Assodeh’s advice and crossing the Thames for the fourth time in only a couple hours, I was struck by the overwhelming smell of delicious food. I looked all around and did not see as much as a hot dog stand, and yet, the smell of food enveloped me and had me salivating with a suddenly recognized sense of famishment. I noticed a large number of people funnelling their way down a set of stone stairs next to a rather pretty cathedral. I decided to follow the crowd. A good decision, as it turned out, because under the bridge and under works of the city was the massive open-air Borough Market! Everywhere I turned, dozens upon dozens of vendors, grocers, chocolateers, and brew masters were pedalling their goods to the mass of people streaming by. Both the vendors and customers were impossibly diverse and worldly. I heard more  languages than I could count just rubbing elbows with people to get through the market. For a couple of Pounds from a Morrocan food stand, I got a variation of falafel and curry in a pita bread pocket, and a few pieces of fruit from the neighboring grocer for just a few Pence more. I took my amazing little meal to the church courtyard near the market and ate ravenously. 

 Sitting in that little courtyard, watching children playing, couples fawning, and people from all walks of life casually conversing, I thought that this was as good a place as any to unpack the ukulele and play a few songs. But sadly, it would not come to be. As soon as I zipped open the case, the neck of my ukulele came springing out to greet me with a stomach-churning crack. It seems that despite all of my precautions and care, the ukulele had snapped somewhere in transit that day; most likely in the overhead compartment of my flight that morning. It was not a hopeless case though, as the neck had not been severed entirely from the body of the instrument, and was holding together, if only just, by a few splinters. But the strings were adding a dangerous amount of tension to that fragile neck joint, so with the heavy hearted-emotions comparable to removing an arrow from a dear friend, I took my knife and chopped the strings away. “Well that’s not gone well at all now, has it?” said a perceptive Englishman passing by, and I simply responded with “No…no it hasn’t,” followed by something between a chuckle and a sob. Putting my broken friend back into the case and securing it to my pack, I set off at 1pm in search of a gin and tonic.

On the far side of the Borough Market, I spotted a gold-emblazoned sign saying “The Globe.” My eyebrows raised, surprised that I had managed to just stumble upon Shakespeare’s famous Globe Theatre, but upon pushing the old wooden door open, I realized that I actually had not. It was the old-fashioned Globe Tavern, and my silent prayer for a drink in the church courtyard was swiftly answered. I poured my sorrows out to the bartender, and he, in turn, poured them into my glass. I asked him if he knew of any good luthiers (repairman of stringed instruments) in London, and while he did not, he called out to another Englishman across the bar who did. The old gentleman, George, recommended I take a trip to Denmark Street in the SoHo area of London and ask around there. I made a note of it, thanked him profusely, and went on my way.

After meandering aimlessly through some interesting side streets for a while, I found myself back on the river, which ironically led me straight to the actual Shakespearean Globe Theatre. A beautiful old-world structure rebuilt authentically in 1997 to resemble the original one that burned down centuries ago. The entire project of rebuilding the old theatre was fully supported by the Queen herself, and fully funded and coordinated by Sam Wanamaker. Many of you may know Sam Wanamaker’s daughter, Zoe Wanamaker, who is mostly readily recognized as Madam Hooch, Harry Potter’s broomstick-flying instructor. I took a tour of the theatre for 11 Pounds, although I would have preferred to see and actual performance there, had the season not just ended. The Globe has an open roof to allow natural sunlight to light the plays, usually performed early afternoon when the light would not be glaring into the actor’s faces. The two massive supports “Holding up the heavens,” or the roof above the stage, are called the pillars of Hercules, and are actually two WHOLE oak trees that were likely growing in an English forest somewhere within Shakespeare’s lifetime. The theatre seats 700 today, but the same-sized venue in Shakespearean times fit as many people in as physically possible—estimated in the filthy, reeking thousands. The tour was fantastic, with a great museum to explore, an intimately personal walk around the theatre itself, and a very enthusiastic (and quite cute) tour guide. Even if you are not an English major and literature geek like me, I would highly recommend a visit to the Globe if you ever find yourself in London.

From the Globe, I continued along the river in the direction of the city center, passing a variety of entertaining street musicians and performers along the way. All of a sudden, after passing underneath yet another bridge, I saw Big Ben and Westminster Abbey ahead of me, across the river, and the massive London Eye looming just in front of me. I opted not to ride up the London Eye because the line for it looked positively nauseating, and the steep price of admission was a bit outside my budget. I enjoyed the twilight views of London in the early evening from ground level, and then turned away from the river in search of the Waterloo Train Station.

I had arranged to stay with my close American friend, who I call Cheeseman, who was studying abroad in a town called Kingston Upon Thames just outside of London. The 6 Pound train ticket brought me straight to my long lost workout buddy within the hour, and we celebrated our reunion at the local pub with a merry group of international students. After a night of drunken debauchery, we returned to Cheeseman’s not-so-humble abode in the English suburbs where he rents a loft room from a married English couple. When he told them I was coming to visit, they made up a guestroom for me to stay in, free of charge! Lovely people!

The next morning, Cheeseman and I ventured back into the big city together. He armed me with a London Oyster Pass, which once I loaded with 10 Pounds at the train station, gave me almost unlimited access to all of London’s public transports—including the famous underground and double-decker buses! No matter how many of those buses we got on, riding on the second floor was such a novelty, especially when you got a seat at the very front where you can press your nose up against the massive window and feel like a fifteen foot tall god moving at speed through the narrow roads. From that view though, driving on the left side of the road was extra noticeable and disconcerning.

Cheeseman took us straight to another open air market near Waterloo Bridge where we got breakfast and coffee on the cheap side.

 We then made a beeline across the Hungerford pedestrian bridge toward Trafalgar Square and the national gallery. The massive open courtyard, adorned with its massive stone lions, towering monument, and swarms of people, was almost too much to take in all at once. We stopped for a moment to just let our eyes absorb every little detail of the square. The street performers posing as hovering human statues boggled my mind. After taking a few more selfies to add to the already extensive collection, we entered the National Gallery for a couple of Pounds dropped in a donation basket. The artwork inside ranged from classical religious pieces and regal portraits, to visually stunning natural and architectural landscapes. There was an entire gallery of Monet’s famous impressionist works, but I much preferred the hyper-realistic paintings of Venetian canals and English countryside to his somewhat blurry depictions of lily pads.

We then took a nice walk through the bustling city and made our way to Buckingham Palace. It was a massive building, but yet somehow, I was underwhelmed by it. Aside from its size, there really is not much to say about it. The tall metal gate keeping the hundreds of camera-wielding tourists at bay partially hid a relatively flat facade and uninspiring stone and gravel courtyard. The other three sides of the palace, including the famous gardens, were not viewable due to a towering stone wall besieged by ugly metal spikes, barbed wire, and countless camera orbs.

Instead of loitering in front of Her Majesty’s house, Cheeseman and I walked on to Hyde Park, which was a refreshing juxtaposition to the city atmosphere. The park stretched seemingly on forever, and held a great stillness and sense of calm despite being located in the midst of such a loud city. We took our time walking through it, stopping at many interesting statues and fountains along the way. We found a fascinating tree, whose thick branches formed a cave-like enclosure around its trunk. A door-sized hole had been trimmed away to allow entry inside, where decades-worth of names, initials, and professions of eternal love had been carved into nearly every square inch of the trunk and exposed branches. I found a small unmarked section of branch and carved a Zorro-esc N into it to add to the galleria.

We then took the Underground, which was a brilliantly easy system to navigate, to Chinatown in SoHo. There, we bought a cheap lunch of rice cakes, sausage rolls, and pastries from a Korean bakery, and ate it on the go as we wandered the streets and alleyways of the culturally unique section of London. To my delight we just stumbled upon Denmark Street, the place I was recommended to bring my Ukulele for repairing, and I ogled at the dozen or so music shops lining it. We went into nearly every single one we saw, ogling the beautiful array of guitars, ukuleles, mandolins, drums, saxophones, and more! I finally saw a shop that had a sign saying REPAIRS inside, and when I asked the man behind the counter about it, he led me down into the basement, typed a passcode into an electronically locked door, and brought me into the secret workshop. Sitting at a workbench was a gentlemanly gem of a man straight out of the 1970s, whose face I caught my first glimpse of through the reflection of a 5Xs Platinum Album hanging on the wall. He introduced himself as Colin, long time roadie and guitar tech to The Kinks, whose long hair and cheerfully laidback demeanor reminded me a bit of a lanky Paul McCartney. He empathized greatly with my broken ukulele, and after giving it a nice long look over, said that he thought he could make it work again for no more than 25 Pounds. I could have wept with joy when I heard him say that. I left the ukulele in his care, telling him to take his time since I would not be back through London for at least a week, and went on my way. Looking back, I think that SoHo’s Chinatown and musically magical Denmark Street were my favorite bits of London.

Cheeseman and I wandered for a long while, enjoying the spontaneity that accompanies getting lost. We finally made our way back around to Waterloo Station, and from there, home. Back in Kingston, we recharged our batteries a bit, then went out again at 11pm in search of a club or upbeat bar. Cheeseman knew of a couple nightclubs, but I was denied entry to all of them since the only form of ID I had brought with me was my international youth card—which despite having a color photo of me, my birth date, birthplace, and verification code, was not a valid form of identification. I am glad it was not though, because eventually we came to O’Neils Irish Pub, where for no cover charge or need for ID checking, we saw an amazing rock’n’roll performance by the british born and raised “iPhoinics.”

The morning following the rock concert started slowly, and Cheeseman and I took our time getting back into London. We met up with another group of his international friends and took an extended tour of the British Museum. I had my full backpack with me again, which weighed about 16 kilos, and I was told at the door that I would need to check my bag into the cloakroom for security reasons. But at the cloakroom, I was told that they could not accept items over 8 kilos, and unless I could divide everything I had brought into 2 bags under the limit, I could not check the pack and therefore not enter the museum. I conferred this information with Cheeseman and the group, and we finally decided to just stride into the nearest exhibit as if we owned the place to see if anyone actually would actually try to stop us. I waited for an opening when the security man had his back turned, and then I just casually walked into the Egyptian history gallery. Life is 90 percent confidence, my friends.

 We explored for hours, looking at statues of pharaohs, ancient hieroglyphics, the Rosetta Stone, mummies, sarcophaguses, Greek and Roman sculptures to the Gods, African tribal artefacts, precious stone and gem encrusted tools and jewelry from the orient, and more! One could spend entire days inside the British Museum and still not be able to see everything that there is to see.

As we left the British Museum, in spite of what the weatherman had promised that morning, it was pouring rain. However, it did not take long at all to find a store entirely dedicated to selling umbrellas. Inside the shop was a fantastic display of umbrellas with hand carved wooden handle and intricate artistic patterns. As you might have guessed though, these umbrellas were all a bit out of my price range, the cheapest starting at 50 pounds. But just across the road was a tourist shop selling British-flag emblazoned knick knacks and much more affordable umbrellas for those tourists who came to England unprepared for the rain. While I had a rainjacket and raincover for my pack, it was too warm outside for me to want to dawn a jacket. Personally, I secretly always wanted to own one of those cane-length black umbrellas. So for 10 Pounds, I got myself a classy black one that, with the touch of a button, lights up with neon colors, and with the touch of another button, turns on an LED flashlight under the handle. 

 On the street somewhere in SoHo, I said goodbye to Cheeseman and my new international friends, and caught a bus back to Waterloo station. There, I bought a ticket to Portsmouth, home of the British Royal Navy, where I would be reunited with my English friends Harry and Alex. And that’s where I find myself now, just a few minutes outside Portsmouth’s Fratton station, typing furiously into a wireless keyboard connected to my iPhone.

My first 3 days in England were a resounding success and an exciting start to my solo trek through Europe; with one small exception of my Ukulele breaking. But even that led to a phoenix metaphor in the making as Colin, at this very moment, works to rebuild my ukulele from its weary ashes. I intend to revisit London in a little over a week on my way North, but in the meantime, I am excited to explore the English coast and countryside.