And the Rest, They Say, was History

I'm a shy girl. I'll admit this openly, and anyone who knows me well will attest. Once I get to know someone, the gauntlets are off and I'm happy to be simply me, but crossing that "getting to know someone" boundary can be hard for me. Hold on to your hats.
With my character being such as it is, bar scenes tend to bore me: I'm too shy to go up to someone, strike up conversation and see where it goes from there. I sit there, secretly hoping someone will talk to me so I don't have to break the ice. Last night, Tristan, Allie and I decided that, as per an assignment given to us by our professor, we were going to go out to a pub and strike up conversation with locals and meet people. We decided on a nice-sounding joint in Waterloo, which is a little farther south than the Southbank of the Thames, and somewhere none of us had been before.
Allie clung tightly to Tristan's arm as we wandered the dimly-lit streets, buildings looming on all sides and the three of us thought, "All right... Little sketch..." At least, I did. There was a foreboding sense of silence, shops closed on all sides for the night and little in the way of wanderers such as ourselves. Once we got our bearings about us and actually found the place, however, we felt a little more comfortable, having discovered it was in a well-lit area on what appeared to be a major roadway. 45 minutes later we stood huddled in a group with only ourselves to talk to.
It was at this point I took the initiative and suggested we find another bar. The Firestation (the pub we made our way to) was closing at 11 (which was 20 minutes away) and we hadn't met anyone new. At this point I just wasn't feeling the vibes. We ended up at a bar across the street called Wellington that appeared to be attached to a hotel and made our way in through its large glass doors.
We headed through small crowds towards the back where we could scope the room and regain our senses. We trekked single-file along the bar. I glanced at the beers on tap, the bright lights on the ceilings, the man occupying a stool with a guitar case and Zildgian bag on the ground by his feet. I don't know what possessed me, but before I could think or stop myself from acting I was stepping forward.
"So... Are you in a band?"
And just like that we found ourselves chatting up two guys who were grabbing a cool-down drink after rehearsal before calling it a night. As the drummer (later to be given the name Peter) joined us and Tristan engaged him in conversation, I kept a steady chat with this blonde-haired blue-eyed self-taught guitarist from Kent. I would find out later that his name was Andy. For all the fun he poked at me for being American, he seemed like a nice and interesting guy who had a few good stories in him.
For at least another hour we stuck around and talked about everything from Andy's job at the Tower Bridge where he wrote business proposals to Peter's opinion that he is, as a drummer, an eclectic blend of Chuck Berry and Sergei Prokofiev. As it neared midnight we said our goodbyes and made our way outside to which I could only take a deep breath and wonder, "What just came over me?" Of course I quelled this thinking as I took my bows for being the "hero" of the night and finding us some locals to chat up.
Thinking back on it now, a day later, I can't believe that I did what I did. I never go up to people randomly with no provocation and strike up conversation from nowhere. I never put myself willingly in the forefront of a social situation and cross my fingers, hoping for the best, but this came upon me like an impulsive instinct: A move I had to make, but to prove what, I don't know. It makes me wonder what's to come of this one instance of seemingly random outgoingness.

JD