Since my arrival to London there have been so many different experiences that may be considered mundane to the average Londoner, but for an outsider it takes some getting used to. The most significant to come to mind is the ever-impressive London Underground. First impressions are daunting, everyone and everything coming and going so quickly. The clamor of bodies jumbled together moving through the many tunnels all of which look so similar, take the wrong turn and who knows where you may end up. However, after sometime the filthy lower regions of the city start to grow on you and a delightful level of comfort settles in. That is when you can see the tube for what she really is, a beautiful well oiled machine and a full extrasensory experience like no other. It was after an arduous ten-day trip abroad that I had my own intimate encounter with the subterraneous world. After what seemed like ages on every form of transportation; planes, trains, cabs, and by bus, I had finally arrived at Baker Street Tube Station finally a landmark station I recognized.
Overwhelmed by exhaustion I swiped my oyster and fell into the march of bodies toward the escalators that would descend into the nethers.
I stood to the right unwilling to move more than was necessary and as I enjoyed the moment of rest I was pleasantly overcome by beautiful music. I peered around the single-filed heads down to the approaching landing and saw a man with exotic dark features fluidly strumming away at his acoustic guitar. I realized in my stupor of sleep deprivation that the melody growing louder with my coming approach was not only familiar but a classic favorite pumped chock full of the nostalgia of my home. Still wrapped up in my moment I was lurched off the escalator quite forcefully as it appeared that my free ride down and my moment of rest had ended. Rather than continue my journey with the prior sense of urgency I chose to stay and witness a unique performance of Hotel California. I stood and I stared front and center, as others continued through to their destinations.
Some people slowed their pace to admire, some took video and snapshots without stopping, but even the ones that kept moving seemed to have a rhythm in their step. I found myself no longer in the musty humid trenches but musically transported to a surprisingly ideal venue for the bluesy classic rock. The unintentional acoustics of the underground are such that the melodies are carried down every tunnel while every note resonates off the tiles around the performer only to satisfyingly assault my ears. I watched all around me as the moving bodies in step toward there destination seemed to choreograph themselves with the sound. As the last bar of the song was played I relished in my moment with this performer tossed him a quid and took my step into the mob toward my tunnel. I listened closely as I moved on to my platform and heard the familiar notes of a popular Beatles tune and couldn’t help but smile. I wondered if someone else was stopping now to listen to song that meant something like home to them.
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