London, it May be many literary tours but should not be confused with the Pursuit of Happiness tour.

I woke up this morning “unhappy.” Yes, I know that seems blasphemous to say that I woke up this miraculously once again sunny Friday morning in London, a morning that succeeded dancing to my favorite Lady Gaga tunes into the wee hours of the night in a club outside Soho Square, anything other than elated (my mother would die if she knew that her Friday paycheck financing this excursion, the one thing for which she woke up this morning on the other side of the pond, was going towards a less than ecstatic child), but it’s true. Terribly vivid, stressful dreams plagued my mind throughout the night, rendering it a restless sleep and a somber morning. I stepped into the shower hoping to rinse away the negative thoughts and perspiration from imitating the Fame Monster cooer that stemmed from the prior night. Yet as I pulled on my robe of bright pink polka dotted terry cloth, I was disappointed to find that while the cheerful scent of my tangerine sunshine body wash now replaced my former stench from the Soho night club, the equally jubilant disposition for which I so desired did not supplant my dismal mood, and the gloom most typical of a London skyline remained.

Along with my despondency, now set in guilt. How could I possibly be in London stressed, having nightmares? How, this morning, after seeing Big Ben and Buckingham Palace, touring literary Bloomsbury and the British Museum, philosophizing with great intellectuals of this city, (and did I forget about the dancing to Gaga), could I not find happiness? I must enroll in therapy as soon as I return to the states I began to think to myself! However, the perfect solace came to me much sooner than my expected return to the U.S. It came to me that very morning in the form of a lunch at the Wagamama noodle chain with Sarah Ahmed, queer theorist and professor in race and cultural studies at Goldsmiths University of London.

Author of The Promise of Happiness (2010), Sarah spoke on exactly the subject presently troubling my mind: my happiness, or lack thereof. Sarah focused on the etiology of the word, reflecting that “hap” means by chance, and powerfully proposed that happiness is not a guarantee of action but an occurrence of chance. She asserted that historically society, incorrectly, has made us to feel that we have the ultimate power and responsibility to control happiness, that in the words of Michael, “if you do all these things and you’re not happy, boy you’re fucked.” This notion against the conventional thoughts on the attainment of happiness was the most uplifting philosophy I have heard in ages. No longer was I steeped in remorse for my lack of glee. Now, it was a sense of freedom to let my joy “happen” that overwhelmed me. Sarah Ahmed transformed my Wagamama seat into a shrink’s couch, and unlike the costly, most often uninsurable, session with a psychologist, this beautiful conversation with the renowned philosopher was priceless.

In the spirit of chance, the theme of happiness ensued throughout the night. All dressed to the nines, we attended the play After the Dance at the National Theatre. Set in the time period directly proceeding World War II, the play focused on a rambunctious, drunken crowd of riches and lavishness, all of whom are masquerading in an act of happiness yet none actually achieving such. The main character David’s false pursuit of happiness sparks the tragedies of the narrative. After finding that her husband will soon divorce her for a younger woman, the wife of the protagonist, Joan, commits suicide at the very party she hosts. The play ends with David deciding to drink himself to death. Exploiting the notion that a life dedicated to only the search for happiness is a vapid and destructive one, the play was enlightening, the perfect fit to follow the morning’s discussion with Sarah, and as I rose from my theatre chair, I once again felt as though I was departing the comfy, lavish sofa of a therapist.

Last summer, in the scorching hot months of the states, the Kid Cudi Pursuit of Happiness album lyrics were the words by which I lived. This summer it will be the quite contrary philosophy of Sarah Ahmed to not pursue, but stumble upon, happiness. Today granted me the freedom to release the guilt for my own emotions, to let “happiness happen.” So in the words of Joan when asked how does she feel, I can gladly boast “I don’t know yet.”

(Note to reader: the moment of unhappiness of which I speak was very very transient. London is absolutely wonderful! And after my ridiculous shopping in the delightful beach town of Brighton, unhappiness may no longer be in my vocabulary.... until I see my bank statement that is)