To call it just another night out wouldn’t be enough. Nor would it be enough to simply call it memorable. Although it may have started that way. Another excursion, another ride on the tube. Another five quid snatched from my hand into a methodical machine that clinked out fifty pence and a travel card. I knew though, that somehow, today was different. There was a shimmer, a dewy glow to everything. On the way to the tube station, the clouds were racing each other across the sky, the slower ones darkening as lighter ones, sun washed and feathery, slipped past. It had just rained. It must have rained in drops of color, because everything looked brighter, more alive. I thought of C.S. Lewis and The Last Battle; was I getting a glimpse past the shadowlands? The air was rich with moisture, and freshness wafted from every living thing I passed. It made me feel more alive just to be walking beside budding trees, to watch the sun sparkling off glistening blades of grass, to see the shy purple of the magnolia.

I was headed downtown to listen to a concert. I’ve been to several concerts since I first stepped foot in this glamour town, this city of light and darkness. Each performance had exceeded my expectations, and I hoped that tonight would do the same. The sun had not yet set when I slithered my travel card into the gate, snatched it back and headed towards the escalator. Nor had it sunk beneath the horizon by the time I emerged from Embankment Station and gazed out past the street and stone-faced people to the Thames and the Royal Festival Hall beyond it.

This is my favorite part of London: the stretch of wide sidewalk that spoons with the south side of the Thames. The sphinxes are there, guarding Cleopatra’s Needle with bronze paws and smirking lips. At night, the Hungerford Bridge is lit up like an expensive cocktail, and from either direction, I can see panoramic views of the city. Along the sidewalk, wrought-iron fish with gaping mouths are intertwined with coiled lamp posts. Between every lamp post for a mile in either direction swing white light bulbs, casting dancing shadows on the trees that hold hands overhead. I can amble along this path in the day, curiously watching the people that hurry past; I can stroll it by night, wide-eyed and stirred by the dizzying array of colors displayed through the miracle of electricity.

Today I couldn’t take the time I would have liked to enjoy the beautiful sky; the concert started in an hour, and I wanted to grab a steaming cup of coffee before settling into seat number R44. I make it to my seat with time to spare, and I was even able to watch the sky darken and weep over the city before taking the lift to the fifth floor and R44. The players began to file in as I mused over the difference between “philharmonic” and “symphony.” I now know that Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary considers them to be synonyms, but at that moment, I was wondering if maybe Phil’s Harmonica made for one too many players in the traditional symphony, and as essential as the harmonica was to the piece, they solved the problem by changing the ensemble’s name.

The first piece was quintessentially modern, written by Julian Anderson and entitled “The Crazed Moon.” I kept imagining a yellow, grinning face above restless waters of a nameless sea, waxing and waning at its own will, holding its breath and turning a violent shade of red, then blue before finally setting. The music was hard to listen to; modern music usually is. I remember a piece about the bombing of Hiroshima that included the sounds of airplanes flying overhead followed by the feeling of the explosion—skin melting, glass shattering, buildings crumpling—and culminating in an eerie silence. It was one of the most painful pieces I’ve ever heard.

The second piece was much more traditional, a piano concerto by Mendelssohn. A small asian man, wearing a blue silk shirt with what appeared to be intricate polka dots (I was sitting close to the back of the auditorium) and black pants walked modestly onto the stage and gently sat on the piano bench. For the next thirty minutes, I was mesmerized by the hands, one moment dancing, another moment plucking, another moment caressing the crisp ivory keys. His fingers moved like spiders, spinning harmony and melody into a complex web of song. He could make the piano croon, he could make her whisper, he could make her shout. At one point, the music was so gentle and tender, I felt like I was intruding on an intimate moment between two lovers. I could barely breathe as I watched the music flow out of him like a silver thread. For an instant, I could see that the music wasn’t something he created, but something that originated far beyond himself. He was merely the vessel that was pouring out notes like an offering. He held the entire audience spellbound with his magic, and when he concluded, there was uproarious applause and calls for an encore. After coming out and bowing three separate times, he finally reappeared with an older man carrying an odd instrument. He introduced him as his father and the instrument as a Chinese violin. It only had two strings, and when the old man pulled the bow across them, it sang an eerie chant, exotic and dark. During the intermission, my mind played through the various similes and metaphors I could use to describe his playing, but nothing seemed adequate. I kept wishing for a simple pen and notepad to scribble my thoughts in. They were flying faster than I could keep track of.

I had been looking forward to the third piece all evening. Symphony no. 2 by Sergei Rachmaninov, one of my favorite composers. I have been raised on classical music like it was milk. One of the CD’s I remember the most was a collection of Rachmaninov’s works, and I knew that after hearing the opening bars, I would be transported home; I would probably be setting the table, and my mom would be in the kitchen, pulling loaves of bread out of the oven. I knew all this, and still I was unprepared when I heard the first few lines of music, swelling and washing over the crowd like waves lapping a white sand beach. My heart expanded in my chest, and I seriously wondered whether I would be able to survive all five movements of the symphony. I closed my eyes and hummed along with the melody in my head, feeling the rise and pull of the phrases. I could feel the longing stirring inside of me when the music ached. I felt the leap of authority when the music sounded its battle cry. I could feel the tears springing to my eyes when the music mourned. The best thing about Rachmaninov’s music is the drama, the passion and the power combined with bitter sadness, arching, sweeping lines of melody and dense, rich chords that resonate in every fiber of your body. I felt all this and more, and when the music finally stopped, I couldn’t stop the applause that shook my arms and threatened to pull them from their sockets. I could feel the joy bursting through my skin. I had been rocked by the song exuding from the bodies of the musicians; it had rocked them too. I watched them drag tired bodies from black, plastic chairs, and recalled the way the concertmaster had rippled like a salmon in his seat, remembered the way the music flew out of him like lightening. I was tired too, although it was with a light heart that I took the lift down to the ground floor and walked out into the windy night.

It had started out as just another day; going to class as usual, signing the sheet to say yes, I had received my five quid, taking my tea with two sugars and milk. How could I have known that the day would end indescribable? Even what I’ve set down here on these pages doesn’t do it justice. But I can say with certainty that it was more than just another night out.