Gobsmacked.

First, a few definitions.

Royal Albert Hall: One of Britain's most famous concert halls. Shaped like an amphitheater with a dome on top, sumptuously decorated with elaborate stone columns and red velvet seats. Named for Prince Albert, the son of Queen Victoria (I don't know what he did to deserve such a splendid namesake. Oh monarchy, you are silly.)

The Proms: a series of concerts at Royal Albert Hall from July to September in which famous orchestras from all over the world come to perform. So named because concertgoers "queue up" (to use another British term) the day of the concert to buy standing-room tickets. They watch from the arena, the space directly in front of the orchestra, or the gallery, a balcony spanning the top level of the hall, where they can walk (promenade) about. 

Now, the narrative. 

The Underground workers are on strike, but luckily I managed to take one of the few lines still open to South Kensington, a wealthy area full of museums, theaters, Harrod's, and the Royal Academy of Music. My friends and I were issued raffle tickets, which we later exchanged (along with 5 pounds) for real tickets. We waited a outside in the lovely cool air for about an hour and a half. The atmosphere was that of a college tailgate. A really classy tailgate. Open trunks of cars revealed gourmet meals within, couples eating on fine china with silverware. Spectators in the "queue" brought picnics to eat while they waited, complete with wine (no laws against open alcohol containers outdoors to restrain them). The 50-ish man next to me spewed pita bread and hummus everywhere as he enthusiastically talked to his friend about finances. The most striking thing about the waiting audience was its diversity. I've been to a lot of orchestra concerts in my life, and the stereotype that they attract older audiences tends to be true. This crowd, however, was filled with young people, old people, middle-aged businessmen, goth people, well-dressed people, students, families, and countless others of every imaginable age, background, and nationality, all enthusiastically throwing a pre-concert block party. The atmosphere inside Royal Albert Hall was even more exciting. The beautiful auditorium is stunning, and I took my place in the gallery, a balcony running all the way around the circular room, next to a friendly British woman who has been to no fewer than 30 concerts this year. There are no seats in the gallery, so the audience either stands against the railing or sits on the floor; many brought cushions and blankets for the occasion, furthering the sense of a giant, classy block party.

Then, the orchestra. Oh, the orchestra. Wow, the orchestra! It wasn't only classical music nerds like me who were amazed. The Orchestre National de France (guess where they're from??) played pieces by Debussy and Stravinsky, and did it with such talent. Even though I was in the upper realms of the hall, I could hear every note perfectly. The thing that amazes me about professional orchestras is that the conductor does not actually keep the time; the musicians do that themselves. Rather, he (or she) signals entrances and dynamics about a second before they are actually supposed to happen, painting a picture of what the music will do next. And yet the musicians are still so together; they share some innate sense of unity that allows them to sense the thoughts of that trumpet player in the last row as well as the stand of violinists in front of them. The percussionist has the hardest job of all, because it's pretty obvious if he misplaces his moment of glory after being silent for half the piece. The timpani player in this orchestra was probably the best musician in the group, crashing and thundering and rumbling at the moment precisely calculated to thrill the audience. I could go on, but I won't. Suffice it to say it was the best concert I've ever been to by far. Seriously inspiring.

You thought I was finished, didn't you? Wait, I have one more things to tell you about. As if Wednesday's events weren't cool enough, on Thursday I saw a West End production of Arthur Miller's "All My Sons." My friend and I stood in line at the theater that morning to get day seats for 10 pounds, which turned out to be the balconies in the front of the auditorium. I always wondered who got to sit there; I assumed it was important people or people who payed a lot of money. Turn out it's just my friend and me and an elderly British couple who asked if we were on holiday. We had to lean on the railing a little to see the side of the stage closest to us, but I would have been on the edge of my seat anyway, so gripping were the players in front of us. If you don't know the play, I won't spoil it for you with a long summary that won't do it justice. It's Miller, which means it's American, it's about a family, it's heart-breaking yet somehow redeeming at the same time. I came out with that sense of catharsis the Greeks liked to talk about so much. All the emotion of the past two hours left me feeling exhausted but clean, filled with wonder at the world. I wish I could bottle that feeling up and take sips occasionally to remind me what it's like to feel amazed by what it's like to be a human.

So on the night after the best concert ever I saw the best play ever. I feel so lucky to have experienced what I did. If only I could take it back to you all and share it-- what a gift that would be.