After a fantastic reunion with old friends in Portsmouth, England, I decided to make my way back to London to pick up my newly repaired ukulele. My friends Harry and Alex were driving north to Leicester (pronounced Lester, believe it or not) and dropped me off at Heathrow airport along the way. Since I had flown into the budget London Stansted airport earlier that month, I was excited to see the famous Heathrow airpark. It was big, it was shiny, but it was just another airport…not sure what I was expecting really.

It is quite an odd thing to arrive at an airport with all of your luggage but not be there to catch a flight. I was repeatedly asked by airport employees directing people around if I needed help checking in. I would then have to come up with some good excuse for walking around aimlessly in an airport so as not to seem like ‘a suspicious person in sector three.’ I sat down in one of the many cafes to charge my nearly dead phone and have a coffee. There I made some nice small talk with a Canadian harpist who apparently had been living in the airport since the night before, waiting on her Celtic band’s delayed flight to arrive. She was nice, if not a bit eccentric, and had a lot of recommendations on things to do and see in London.

Once my phone and my body were feeling properly recharged, I headed for the sub-basement levels of the airport where the London Underground was housed. It was a five-pound ticket right to the city center, in Picadilly Square. I made it through the rest of “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” on my Kindle during that tube ride. When I emerged from the overly crowded, hot and stuffy Underground I was greeted by the glorious coolness of English rain. I whipped out Excalibur, my big black umberella, and made my way toward SoHo.

Back on Denmark street in SoHo, I reunited with Colin and my beautifully reconstructed Ukulele. Colin, longtime guitar technician for The Kinks, had done a fantastic job replacing all the little splinters and reattaching the neck to the body of the instrument. I told him as much, but then I noticed one little problem. It did not have the metal-wound low-G string that I was accustomed to having on my Kala Uke. When I asked him about it, he assured me that the strings were still for a tenor ukulele, but that they did not have the low-G string in their store.

Leaving my backpack in his workshop, I set out into the London rain on a mission to find that low-G string. I walked into every music shop on Denmark street, which is a lot of music shops, but had no luck. I widened my search to all of SoHo and still had no luck. Going off of the advice of the people in these shops, I ran nearly three miles to shops on the other side of the River Thames…and still no luck. The guy behind the counter of the last shop said my best hope would be “The Duke of Ukes” ukulele shop across town, who he was kind enough to get on the phone for me. They had a low-G string! But the store was already closed for the weekend… strikeout. I walked unhurried back to Denmark street in a mist, my umbrella closed at my side; I felt utterly defeated. But a detour through SoHo square and Chinatown quickly lifted my spirits again.

I got back to the workshop and Colin tried to reassure me that the strings he put on would sound fine until I found suitable replacements. I gave it a few strums, and it did sound nice and ukulele-like, just lacking that deep bass string I had grown so fond of. I hungout in the workshop with Colin and his new assistant Charlie for a while, swapping travel stories and music tips. It really was a treat to spend time with such authentic Englishman in the midst of the massive tourist trap that is downtown London. Colin even told me crazy stories about my hometown, Charlotte, North Carolina, from when he toured there in the 1970s. Apparently there was a wild organized crime scene there at the time. One club on Tryon street where The Kinks played even tried to pay them in cocaine, which Colin said The Kinks outright refused because they had specifically asked to be paid in MDMA. Charlotte! Who knew?

My ukulele back on my pack, I set out into the city again to see some of the sights I had missed last time I was there. On the west side of the river this time, I walked right up to the base of Westminster Abbey, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. The architecture of all these buildings up close boggles the mind. All of the tiny details of the facades, the intricately painted glass panes and overwhelmingly massive size of them all managed to dwarf and silence the throngs of camera-toting tourists. I made another pass through Trafalgar Square to the House of Her Majesty’s Royal Guard. The building is half tourist museum and half military occupied. Every doorway off limits to the public was flanked by two royal guards in full formal military attire, armed with swords and rifles, and as still and stoic as a couple of moon rocks.

Feeling a bit uneasy by the number of tourists annoying the serious looking soldiers with rudely close-proximity photographs, I cut through the large courtyard and made my way into St James Park. Like Hyde park just a couple miles away, St James offers a very refreshing taste of nature within London’s urban sprawl. After seeing so many shades of gray along the city streets, Underground tunnels, and stone buildings, the lush greenary of the park was a feast for the eyes.

As I breathed in the view of green grass and evergreens being mirrored in St James lake, I noticed the reflection of a large bird gliding in lazy circles above me. I turned my gaze skyward and was startled to see the large bird suddenly swooping down toward me at speed. I let go of the lakeside handrail I had been leaning on and the craning of my neck combined with the forgotten weight of my backpack sent me windmilling to the ground. The bird of prey was descending on me, the helpless American tourist flat on his ass. I swear I could see the hungry deliberation in its eyes as it passed mere yards over me and landed smartly on the gloved arm of a young blonde woman. “Oh! I hope he didn’t startle you,” the woman said barely stifling her laughter. “No, not at all. I just slipped in the mud,” I replied dumbly looking at the stone pavers I was surrounded by. With some effort I got back to my feet, looking, I’m sure, a bit like a turtle struggling to get off its back. The woman walked over to me, the hawk still perched on her outstretched forearm. As I dusted myself off, she told me about how the city pays raptor trainers like herself to prowl London’s public parks with birds of prey to scare off the hordes of rogue pigeons that terrorize tourists and locals alike. It was one of the most brilliant ideas I had ever heard!

By then the rain had taken a short sabbatical from drenching the city, but had been replaced by an icy wind that found its way into all of the seams of my jacket. I took refuge inside a small teashop by St James pond, where I sadly realized I had spent all my Pounds and only had useless Euros in my pockets. Remembering that I had stashed some instant coffee in my backpack, I craftily got a cup of free hot water from the teashop to mix it with, and helped myself to the milk and honey set out on the table. A nice hot cup of coffee on a cold rainy day does wonders for the body and mind.

Feeling energized and motivated, I decided I would have a go at busking with my newly repaired ukulele to see if I could earn enough coins for some dinner. Now the key to busking is choosing a good location. It has to be a place where there are a lot of people constantly walking by, but needs to be far enough away from the sounds of traffic and trains so that you can be heard. My first attempt was on the Hungerford Pedestrian bridge over the Thames. Lots of people, minimal background noise, low risk of being hasseled by authorities. But after playing a few songs, I realized that everyone was in a hurry to get where they were going, and the bridge did not really offer much room for onlookers to stand and watch.

So I tried another spot on the East side of the river, a few hundred yards away from the crowds swarming under the London Eye. The spot was on the Queen’s Walk, alongside the river, surrounded by trees warmly lit with premature Christmas lights. I opened my umberella upside down at my feet, turned on the neon rainbow lightshow on its handle, and proceded to play Stairway to Heaven. Folks, I made ten pounds in the first ten minutes of playing in that spot. A couple police walked by and told me I was not allowed to busk there after about 20 minutes though, and I made a big show of apologizing and packing my things away. They left and I proceded to play, feeling the magic of that spot. A few more coins were tossed my way, but for me, the money really takes a backseat to the people who walk by singing along, or the kids and drunks that cannot help but dance when they hear a ukulele being played.

I was right not to leave that spot when the police asked me to because what happened next seemed to be fate. A very well dressed man, with an impossibly british set of teeth and leaning on a claw-handled umberella like a cane, stopped in front of me to listen to the rest of my Hawaiian rendition of Wagon Wheel, applauding politely at the end with a hearty laugh of enthusiasm. He then asked me if I liked “Proper music,” to which I replied, “How do mean, my good sir?” “You know, proper symphonic orchestrations! Strings, brass, woodwinds and such!” he said excitedly. “Well yes, I absolutely do like proper music, my good sir!” I said trying to match his level of excitement. “Well then you’d best hurry up young man! The show starts in 20 minutes!” And with that, he dropped a piece of paper into my umberella, kicked his own umberella over his shoulder and walked off into the night.

I picked up the little piece of paper and realized the amazing gift I had spontaneously been given. A ticket to tonight’s performance of the London Philharmonic Orchestra! It was worth 25 Pounds, and as I would later find out, came with a free drink at the bar! I packed up my busking materials, dawned my backpack, and hurried toward the London Festival Hall that Google maps was telling me was just a 10 minute walk away. Halfway there I remembered the original reason for my busking and used the freshly earned coins in my pocket to buy myself a glorious Mexican burrito from a food truck along the river.

So now picture this: an ostentatiously decorated ballroom, complete with crystal chandeliers and lounge piano music, where Londoners in their finest dresses and tuxedos are socializing with champagne glasses in their hands, and I kid you not, opera glasses and monacles at the ready–and me, a 22 year old vagabond in a bright orange rainjacket and cargo pants with a ukulele in one hand, foil-wrapped burrito in the other, walking through the middle of everything with a massive backpack strapped to me. Geez did I feel out of place…

I ducked into the nearest bathroom and changed into the nicest outfit I had crumpled up in my backpack: a white collared shirt sporting a Hollister bird on the pocket, a brown waistcoat, and blue jeans to go with my muddy brown hiking boots. Incognito. I then took my bulging backpack to the cloackroom where a woman jokingly asked if I had brought everything I owned to the show that evening, to which I responded in all seriousness, “Yes, yes I did.” I carried my ukulele around with me since I did not feel comfortable leaving it in the care of the cloackroom while it was still in recovery. A few people mistook my ukulele case for a viola and asked me if I was a member of the orchestra, which I of course said I was. My ticket got me a free gin and tonic from the bar where I chatted up a few high society English girls who liked my accent. They drank a whole bottle of champagne between them while asking me to say random things like orange juice, coffee cup, and aluminum foil.

When the soft piano music was replaced with an announcement for everyone to take their seats in the concert hall, the finely dressed Londoners dispersed in all different directions. Some went upstairs, some went downstairs, some left the building completely. Unsure of where I was supposed to go, I went with my instincts and opted to follow the high society girls upstairs. Sadly though, my seat was nowhere near theirs and I was directed to a center row seat about midway back from the stage. The concert hall itself was astoundingly beautiful and staggering in size. Looking around at all the seats being filled, I realized that this must have been a sold out show and that I was wildly lucky to be there at all. Ironically, a German woman sat beside me who I enjoyed a nice German conversation with before the show. Always good to keep up those language skills.

When the concert started, I was floored by the acoustics of the room. It sounded like the orchestra was playing from every direction at once. Every harmony and resonating chord from the brass section seemed to echo around the inside of my chest. This was exactly where I wanted to be. A prodigal young pianist from Russia stole the first part of the show with his unbelievably fast fingers. At the end of the first piece (which took a half hours by itself) he got a five minute standing ovation and played two encore solos. Hell of showman. The rest of the performance had me hypnotized and I found myself lost in the ebb and flow of the music. For the next hour and a half I let my mind wander freely, taking cues from the music to think about life, the universe and everything. It truly is amazing how music can open the neglected recesses of the mind. When the concert ended, I was left feeling refreshed and almost giddy with how the evening had turned out. The joys and miracles of serendipity traveling!

I took a train out of Waterloo station to Kingston, where I reunited with my old college buddy, Cheeseman, who was doing a semester abroad in England. At nearly 1am, both of us were delerious from lack of sleep, myself a bit more thanks to cheap gin and tonics at the train station bar. The two of us got talking about how we should do some traveling together. “When are you free from school?” I asked him. “Tomorrow and the four days after that!” he said. We spent the next couple hours fantasizing about destinations, and by 3am, we had booked ourselves on a midnight bus to Aberdeen, Scotland.