I left off last time with some glorious line about an impromptu journey to London. That's about where the good feelings end. Airlines have no tolerance for artists.

After entering a fourth hour of waiting in the small Copenhagen airport, I curse the fact that I cannot read a 24-hour clock and have showed up two hours early. I curse the fact that my budget flight is predictably two hours late. And despite the much heralded prowess of Danish design, my chair is about as comfortable as sitting on the point of an upturned canoe.

So begins my trip.

I am traveling with two others from Talal's label, Nasima Music. One of whom decides the proper time to tell us about her fear of flying is at the juncture of the tarmac and the plane, simply saying, "I'm going home."

I am flying EasyJet, an airline that keeps prices low by cutting a few expenses elsewhere — namely in the uniforms of its flight crew. The female attendant is clad in a long-sleeved blue undershirt and a blaze orange vest. The male attendant fares much worse, as his oversized black glasses, acne and torrential sweat are surprisingly overshadowed by the blinding orange of his solid button-up. Nothing quite like hearing, "Would you like a gin and tonic for only $10?" from someone who looks as if he dressed that morning with a fear of being mistaken for a deer by some North woods hunter.

I won't even start on the fact that flying to London-Stansted Airport actually means a $20, one hour bus ride from the airport to downtown London.

I had put some of Talal's music on my iPod to get pumped for the concert and used to some of the twists of Arabic music. Remembering this after my bus finally pulled into Liverpool station, I put the white buds in my ears for the half-hour walk to where I was staying.

I began to vibe with the beat of "Enta Ya Habibi" and walk with a little swagger to Talal's duet with rapper Majid. The beat is guitar-based, which is strange for a rap song and is a little reminiscent of Justin Timberlake's "Like I Love You" intro. It is also strange for Talal, as this is his only foray into rap. Most of his music is pop-based to highlight his voice.

With the music playing, the walk goes quickly, and I begin to feel a little more in tune to where Talal is taking me in each song with his silky vocals. Once the song is over, I finally look up. I am at the Tower Hill Station, and through my clouded breath in the frigid London night (I thought Danish weather was bad), I see the Tower Bridge lit up against the darkness, accented below by the Tower of London. Under the full moon, only the Thames moves. The street is empty, save a few passing London funny-car cabs. Beneath the moon in the cold air, I quickly forget the horrors of my flight and sit for a little while with a sense of calm in my head and Talal in my ears.

The concert is scheduled for the next night. I spend the day walking along the Thames and snapping photographs of various locations where novels and poems I enjoy take place. I go to Westminster to touch Chaucer's tomb — even though I loathe him. I am at the point of desperation for any type of inspiration. Even as I write this, I feel no muse.

I show up at Studio-Valbonne, the club where Talal is slated to play the UNICEF benefit, after getting horribly lost on Regent Street. I find it only after asking countless people for directions, two of whom turned out to be Danes.

In front of the club are red carpets and velvet ropes. I didn't take me long to feel out of place, as I ask the stereotypical tuxedoed bouncer if I may enter.

While keeping his arms folded, he says, "It ain't open yet. 7:30."

I again curse myself for not resetting my watch to the hour-earlier London time. "But I am with Nasima Music," I lie.

He doesn't buy it and stares me down. I suddenly feel as if the lighthearted spirit of the UNICEF benefit may be lost already.

However, in a few minutes, my landlord Jesper surfaces to save me. He is panting and looks tired. The concert promoters had apparently exaggerated just a tad about the set up for Talal — i.e., nothing was set up for Talal.

Jesper had to create the entire soundboard in about an hour. It was done when I arrived though, as I could hear Talal faintly through the door doing vocal exercises.

"Let's go. He's a little nervous," Jesper says.

Well, no shit, I think. It is his biggest performance to date, and everything has gone wrong — much worse than my flight had.

I meet Talal just before he goes on. He looks much older than 20, with his razor-thin sideburns that fade into his beard and his large, fit frame. If he had no voice at all, this man could make it in this world on looks alone. His constant smile is a strange combination of boyish accessibility and a mature grit. He reminds me slightly of "La Bamba"-singer Ritchie Valens as I shake his hand.

But he does have a voice, an amazing voice, which quickly puts his looks into a distant second. Language is a hard medium to express music. Perhaps the best line I have here would be from the event host, who may or may not have been blindly drunk. When introducing Talal, she said, "Our last performer comes from Denmark and sings in Arabic. I can't understand a word he sings, but it is beautiful. Once he opens his mouth, you will just love him."

Though he was nervous before the show, Talal can put on a face when he needs to. The haughty VIP section, sitting behind a gold rail to the left of the stage, had been seated all night, waiting to prove its patronage of the arts by bidding on it. Most of these pieces look more like the possibly drunk host had vomited on them and then taken them to the stage to masquerade as art. All go for more than $4,000.

But midway through his first song, Talal makes eye contact with a middle-aged blonde in the VIP section. Apparently that was all it took to make the woman spring up and dance in her black evening dress, much to the surprise of her older husband, who was scrambling to recover the teetering champagne glasses on the table.

Just a look and his voice make that happen. She probably doesn't understand a word he's saying, and this woman is still pulling her friends up to dance with her. The VIP is now swinging with life.

This makes me think about the scene under the Gwen Stefani billboard and the clash of cultures. Talal says he wants to blend his Middle Eastern roots with Western sounds, but it goes deeper than that. He and others like him are bringing these two cultures together at a time when a bridge is so desperately needed. Though this reserved musician would never admit it, he is doing exactly this.

Talal tells how his family was displaced from Palestine, and he was born in a refugee camp in Lebanon, only to move to Copenhagen when he was 3 years old. Through his music, he is bringing his severed roots together. Through music, he is taking everyone who will listen along for the ride.

After the show, I go backstage, and he asks me nervously with fleeting eye contact, "What did you think?"

Quickly I respond, forgetting I'm not talking to a native speaker, "Shit, was real tight, man."

He doesn't understand this, and probably only picked out the word "shit." I don't think I have ever gotten such a heartbroken stare as when he looks up at me and mutters, "What?"

"Sorry," I say quickly. "It was really good."

With that, we're off to party in the neon-soaked streets of London. Burgers, beers, smoke and lights — home again, except for the Danish and Arabic drinking songs.

Dylan Mohr is a senior abroad in Denmark, studying creative writing and Slavic languages. Tune your responses to [email protected].